


By His Wounds...: The Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ

by 21softballstar



Category: jesus - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-26 06:11:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 37,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4993282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/21softballstar/pseuds/21softballstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sufferings of Christ were unbearable. His torturers hated Him and spat upon His Holy face, yet He loved them-and us. And because He loves us, we are healed by his wounds. The story begins in the Agony of the Garden, focusing on the sufferings of Jesus in different POVs. Jesus did this for you. Enjoy and be moved :) Comments accepted!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hebrew Dictionary

**Author's Note:**

> This may or may not have happened during the Passion. I am writing this because this is what I believe happened. I am taking information from the Bible and St. Anne Catherine's visions of the Passion.
> 
> *****The story is finished. I am done still writing it.  
> *******Some words in this story are in Hebrew. The Hebrew Dictionary is at the beginning of the story  
> ********The story is broken up into chapters if you just wish to read a certain part! I know I've written a lot....

Hebrew Dictionary

It is know that Jesus spoke Aramaic, Hebrew, maybe some Latin, and even some Greek. Yet I am going to be using Hebrew as his main source of speaking since that is more well-known than Aramaic and easier to research for pronunciation.

*The boldness of some letters is used to emphasize that certain part in the word

*More words will be added on here as the story continues

*The story has been updated, so some Hebrew words now appear in earlier parts

Adonai Elohai—The Lord my God (pronounced a-doe-nie, el-oh-hi)

Ani ohevet otcha—I love you (pronounced a-nee oh-hev-a o-twa)

Avah marduwth—A Hebrew curse word

Bat sheli—My daughter (pronounced bat shelly)

Bevakasha—Please (pronounced bev-a-kasha)

Ecce homo!—Behold, the man! (pronounced a-KAY ho-mo) (this is actually LATIN)

Echad—One (pronounced eh-khad)

Ha Lev shelee mookhan, Abba—My heart is ready, Father (pronounced a lev, shalay, mookan)

Lekh mipo—Go away (pronounce lek mi-po)

Lo—No (pronounced lo)

Ma nishma—How are you? (pronounced ma-nishma)

Mayim—Water (pronounced mah-yeem)

Miyad ekhzor—I'll be right back (pronounced mee-yad eck-zore)

Salach li—Forgive me (pronounced sa-lak lee)

Shisha—Six (pronounced shee-sha, masculine version of 6)

Shloshah—Three (pronounced shay-lo-sha)

Shnai'yim—Two (pronounced sh-nym)

Slih'a—Sorry (pronounced slee-ha)

Tamshikh—Go on (pronounced tam-shikh)

Toda—Thank you (pronounced toh-dah)

Tov—Good (pronounced tov)


	2. Agony in the Garden

Hello fellow readers! Thank you SO MUCH for clicking on my story. What ya have here is called "The Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ." The title pretty much sums everything up.

Please read my story, and I hope that someway my story has moved you. I want everyone who reads my story to be touched in some way, even it is the realization that man, you just love Jesus even more now! 

Please like, share, and REVIEW! I would really appreciate it, because the more people that review this, the more reads I will get and the more people that will hopefully love Jesus even more now and realize that he went through all of this for YOU!

Also, give me suggestions! Would you like to see a certain person's point of view? More of something? Let me know!

But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed—Isaiah 53:5

Agony in the Garden

The Garden of Gethsemane drew near. The ivy vines surrounding the Iron Gate wrapped around the first-seen trees, choking them in desperation to have a life of their own. The dew-crested grass glistened in the light of the almost full moon. It was dark, past 9 o'clock in the evening.

A man and his eleven followers stood near the entrance of the gate, not entering quite yet. The man—the leader, it seemed—motioned to eight of his followers. His speaking must have been persuasive, for they all stepped away and sat on the large rocks blocking the Garden entrance. They were content to sitting, while the leader and three final followers slowly stepped into the grass Garden in the dead of night.

They made no comment to one another as they trudged up the slight hill. Each one of their breaths puffed out into the night air, a powder of white. The larger follower stumbled over a tree root, and his friend caught him. But the leader did neither help him or even turn around. He limped through the Garden, a certain destination in his mind.

"Where is he taking us?" John asked Peter as he regained to a stand. "Why did he leave the others behind?"

Peter shrugged, unsure what to say. His Lord had been acting strange the entire evening. It was as if he knew something was going to happen, but Peter didn't know what.

From up above, a black crow flew by, cawing. Peter flinched as he watched the bird fly by, past the large moon and into the trees, now hidden from view. The twigs as to which the bird had landed on shook with the newly applied weight. The crow continued to caw.

The words of his Savior reflected in the back of his mind. What had his Lord been talking about that night? Why had he seemed so sure that him—Peter—would betray his Lord and Savior? It was unheard of. Peter thought of the conversation that had taken place a few hours earlier.

"Simon, Simon," Jesus said, "behold Satan has demanded to sift all you like wheat, but I have prayed that your own faith may not fail; and once you have turned back, you must strengthen your brothers."

Peter told him wholeheartedly, "I will, Lord. But do not be worried about my faith being shaken. Satan will not grab hold of me. I am prepared to go to prison. I am prepared to die with you, my Lord."

Jesus turned to look at Peter, sadness in his blue-green eyes. He smiled slightly, then turned away, saying, "Amen I say to you, Peter, before the cock crows this day, you will deny three times that you know me."

Peter said, "Even though I shall have to die with you, I will not deny you. You are my Lord and Savior, and I am prepared for the pain that could be bestowed upon me now that I follow you."

Peter had meant what he said, but the crow flying by reminded him of that saying his Lord had so confidently told him. Peter was ready for any amount of pain that could be given to him, and he planned to stay near Jesus' side the entire night in order to protect him from whatever he seemed so afraid of.

Jesus limped across dirt, avoiding rocks and trees but hardly daring to look up to his destination. His sandals slipped in the dew, but he regained his equilibrium by grasping a branch. He stopped, slowly raising his head, with much effort, to the Heavens. His searched the sky for answers. He received none.

Turning to face his heavily breathing followers, Jesus stated, "Peter…John…James. My soul is sorrowful even to death. Pray that you may not undergo the test."

The three men, confused, simply nodded, ready to follow him, but Jesus held up his hand, motioning for them to stay put.

A stone's throw away, Jesus crept slowly into a cavern. It was small, but open-spaced. Upon entering, Jesus collapsed, his knees banging on the rock ground. He grasped his thin, long brown hair, mumbling prayers. He turned to the opening of the cave, spotted the moon, and called out, "Abba Father, all things are possible to you. If you are willing, take this chalice away from me; still, not my will but yours be done." In answer, the trees rustled from a mysterious gust of wind. Though the night sky was surprisingly clear, stray dark clouds blew in from the west and covered the bright moon in one swift movement. The entire earth became black.

Anguished by his Father's answer, Jesus fell prostrate over a boulder, his hands grasping each crook and cranny in the rock. The sharp edges pricked his fingers. His hair became soaked with sweat. His body wiggled in anxiety. "Bevakasha, Father," he whispered, his words escaping his lips with difficulty.

A strong hand grasped Jesus' shoulder from behind. Jesus did not turn around, but remained bowed over the rock. An arm wrapped around the Lord's back, and the warmth of his Father's sunshine crept into his body. His Father had sent an angel to comfort him in his hour of need. This angel embraced Jesus with such compassion and love that Jesus almost felt the happiness and joy as if he were back in Heaven, with his Father.

But that would not happen for many more hours. First, Jesus had to endure pain so unbearable for the sins of the entire world. Images rushed through his mind at that moment—Adam and Eve, Abraham, Hagar, Moses, Jacob, Caleb, Jonathon. All the people from the past crept into his brain at that instant. He saw each one of their faces—perfectly formed faces that he himself had created in his own image. Then he saw their sins. He saw Eve and Adam eat the fruit from the tree. He saw them run and hide from God. He saw the sins of Abraham, Isaac, and Sarai. He saw the sins of Noah and his family. Jesus saw every human being that had been created after Adam up until him, and he saw each one of their weaknesses, doubts, and sins.

Jesus' mind ached from the pictures that were put before him. The comforting hand on his shoulder no longer felt so comforting. Thick droplets of blood began to fall down his face and drip into the rock he lay over. His fingers and hands gripped the sharp rock so hard that they cut, precious blood slowly falling from the hands he had cured so many with to the ground.

More images flashed, and Jesus moaned with agony. He saw each person that would come after him. Every person that would be created until when the Son of Man would come again from the clouds of Heaven. He saw each one of the later-day Saints, each Roman soldier, each pioneer, and each new United States leader that would ever be born. He saw every Japanese, French, Spanish, Dutch, Chinese, Korean, and American person that would ever walk the Earth. He saw orphaned children seated on the roadside. He saw all of those who would be sentenced to a life behind bars from the moment he sacrificed himself to the day when he would come again.

Then he saw each one of their sins—every sin each and every person of the world would commit in their entire life. He saw every murder that would ever occur in the world, and who had committed it. He saw every lie, who had told it, and what it was about. He saw the sins of everyone—from the smallest white lie they would ever tell to the largest sin they would ever commit.

The pain was unbearable. Jesus moaned and covered his face with his bloody hands. He turned, prepared to see his Father's angel sent to give him comfort, but he only saw the back of the cavern. Wobbling to a stand, Jesus slowly made his way back to his Apostles. To his disappointment, he found them asleep against a tree. He cried out, "Simon."

Immediately, Simon Peter awoke from his sleep and stood. The others did the same.

"Are you asleep, Simon? Could you not keep watch for one hour? The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. Stay awake, Simon. Keep watch. Pray."

Then, Jesus returned to his cavern, prepared to see once more the entire sins of the entire world.

John, now alert and aware the condition of his Savior, turned to Peter, asking, "What is wrong with him? Should we summon the others?"

Peter did not answer right away. Instead, he watched as Jesus slowly limped away from where they stood. Then he said, "Lo. Let's stay awake and do as he says. Pray and watch."

Still concerned, John stepped a few feet away from his brothers, his eyes fixed on Jesus, who slowly entered the cavern once more. Why did he seemed so anguished? Why did he seem so...frightened? Never had John see Jesus frightened. The three years John knew Jesus, he had always been so joyful in everything he did. But now Jesus was so exhausted and overcome with...pain that he could barely utter words to them, much less walk. And what had been said at the supper that evening to John? He thought back, recalling Jesus mentioning someone would betray him that very night. Of course, not one of the disciples could believe this. Surely none of them—whom had walked with Jesus for three years—would ever betray him. And to whom? The Romans? It was unimaginable, and at that last supper John really didn't want to ask his Lord what he had meant, because for sure he had been mistaken, but Peter had pried John into asking. So, leaning near Jesus' ear, John had questioned, "Master, who is it?"

Jesus did not answer him at first, only messed with a certain bitter herb. Then he had dipped the herb into salt water, making the bitter herb even more disgusting.

But very quietly, very calmly, and very surely, Jesus had whispered back to John, "It is the one to whom I hand this morsel."

Intrigued, John watched as Jesus turned and handed Judas of Iscariot the morsel. Words passed between those two that John did not fully comprehend, but it was a conversation about doing something quickly. After that, Jesus had continued speaking as he normally did, turning to Peter and conversing with him.

It was a confusing dinner that Last Supper, but John trusted in his Lord to work everything out. John still wasn't fully comprehending the whole betrayal part, and why had it been Judas? Why had Judas of Iscariot rushed out of the room so quickly? Every other disciple simply figured that Judas, since he kept the money bag, was going to go buy more food for the feast.

John would figure that, too.

Prostrate on the cavern ground, Jesus clenched his fists in anguished. He again saw all the sins of the entire world—the sins he would be dying for. He already felt so much pain by these visions, yet how would he be able to bear the pain that was still to come?

"My Father, if it is not possible, that this chalice pass without my drinking, it, your will be done! Bevakasha."

This time, an answer came for Jesus, but not from whom he wanted.

"Do you honestly believe that you can go through all this pain? And for whom? Sinners?"

Jesus ignored Satan's rantings by burying his head in his hands. Sweat mixed with blood dribbled through his fingers, fat droplets slowly trickling down his hands to only then fall on the dry ground. "Abba, Father," Jesus called again, only to be answered by the same demon that had tempted him in the desert.

"The pain are you feeling now is unbearable. What about the pain you will feel soon?"

"Father..."

"No one can go through this pain. No one. No."

Jesus removed the hands covering his face. He glanced down at them, now totally covered in red.

"You won't be able to stand the pain," Satan continued. "So why go through with this? Let the people of this world live their own way."

Jesus placed his hands on his bent knees, slowly regaining his balance and standing. He placed his hands on the boulder near him, barely daring to look up and see the demon before him. Once, that demon had been the Angel of Light sitting in the splendor of Heaven along with him, but Lucifer had wanted power. So Jesus had been forced to cast him into Hell.

And now here they both were—God and demon—in the Garden. Jesus turned away, ignoring Satan's calls. He needed to return to his Apostles. Jesus needed to see them awake and praying.

A wave of disappointment reached him when he found them once more asleep against the tree. Jesus nearly crumbled to the ground in anguish, for even his dear friends could not be with him in his time of trouble and pain.

Turning back to the cavern, Jesus looked up to the Heavens. He wished to be there—Heaven. He wished to be there with his Heavenly Father in the wonderful paradise. But he had to be here, on Earth, in this pain. He had to be here in order to sacrifice himself for the sins of the entire world.

He had to because the people of Earth were his lost sheep, and the Good Shepard was not going to abandon his sheep.

"Simon Peter, who do you say that I am?"

"You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God."

Jesus smiled. "Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah. I say to you, Peter, you are my rock. And upon this rock, I will build my church, and the gates of the netherworld shall not prevail against it. I give you now the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven. Whatever you bound on earth shall be bound in Heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in Heaven. Now listen: Tell no one that I am the Messiah. Do you understand, Peter? Peter?"

"Peter!"

Peter's eyes opened. John had awakened him. There before them, again, stood Jesus, this time he looked far worse than the last time they had seen him. His hair was wet—from sweat or blood, Peter didn't know—and he wobbled as he stood. His hands twitched as they covered his face.

"Peter," Jesus called, his words coming out in clear disappointment.

Peter's eye filled with tears as he realized he had fallen asleep yet again. He had meant to keep watch and stay near Jesus' side the entire night, just to prove that he would not betray his Lord, but so far he had not been fulfilling his promise.

He looked away, disappointed in himself.

Jesus said to them all, "Are you still sleeping and taking your rest? It is enough."

"Enough?" James asked.

"The hour has come. Behold, the Son of Man is to be handed over to sinners. Get up, let us go. See? My betrayer is at hand."


	3. The Betrayal

Very sad part in the Passion of Our Lord. I mean, Jesus loved Judas LIKE CRAZY. Yet Judas would have rather had money than be a forever Son of God. "What does it profit a man to gain the whole world yet lose his soul?" Remember, choosing Jesus over every day things is the best choice you will EVER make.

Now, speaking about the story. How do you think I captured the characters? How was Judas? Peter? Please let me know! Does the Jesus I have in this part speak to you as the real Jesus who is alive and well today, sitting on his Throne in Heaven? Please review!

Oh, and you know when you are walking barefoot and you step on a patch of rocks? Yeah, Jesus had to do that. Large, pointy rocks. And even those small little pebbles that you step on right on the pad of your foot, and hurt like crazy. And imagine stepping on giant thorns, but not being able to pull them out of your foot. Imagine being shoved to your knees on a patch of giant thorns. Jesus went through that. For YOU.

The Betrayal

Peter watched as a band of Roman guards and soldiers hastily approached the foursome. They carried lanterns, torches, and...what was that? Weapons. Swords. Clubs. Peter clenched his teeth together. He turned to John, who was just as confused—if not angry—as he was. Why was Jesus doing nothing about this incident? Why were all these soldiers even here, and in the dead of night? It was an unheard of action.

Jesus remained calm as he watched the soldiers draw near. He said, "Whom are you looking for?"

They stopped, quite shocked that a man had actually asked a question to them. One soldier called out, "Jesus the Nazorean."

"I AM."

The man looked away, towards the end of their group, at someone, but they then turned back to Jesus.

Jesus, still calm, said again, "Whom are you looking for?"

They replied. "Jesus of Nazareth."

"I told you that I AM. So if you are looking for me, let these men go."

The soldiers turned once more, grabbed someone behind them, and shoved him forward. The man stumbled to the ground, face pushed into the dirt. He gingerly looked up.

It was Judas.

Confused more than worried, Peter watched as Judas regained his balance and slowly walked towards Jesus. He looked him straight in the eye and said, "Hail, Rabbi!"

Judas kissed Jesus on the cheek.

For anyone else, a kiss on the cheek was a sign of friendship and happiness. Peter was beginning to realize that this meeting was not a happy one. He continued to watch the scene laying out before him.

Jesus tilted his head, eyes sorrowful, and said, "Judas, my child. You betray the Son of Man with a kiss?"

At that instant, Judas stumbled back and touched his lips. He turned and looked at Peter. Peter glared at him with such anger. Betray?

Obviously anguished, Judas came to a balanced stand. By the light of the lantern, Peter saw Judas' eyes fill with tears. He turned and ran off then, without another word to any of them.

At the moment Judas disappeared, the Roman soldiers came at Jesus with their swords and clubs. They grabbed Jesus by the shoulders and thrust his hands behind his back, about to tie rope around his wrist. Peter saw this and grabbed the sword he had kept leaning up against the tree. He charged into the crowd, waving his sword at those who tried to harm his Lord. He heard a cry of great distress, meaning he had injured someone. Two soldiers turned away from Jesus and came after Peter. Peter called out, "Run!" but before he could get the entire word out, the soldiers had ceased him as well.

Jesus said, "Simon Peter, put your sword into its scabbard. Shall I not drink the chalice that the Father gave me?"

Taken-aback, the sword slipped out of Peter's hands. Pain rushed to his face as one of the soldiers punched him. He turned to John.

John didn't know what to do. He wanted to fight with Peter, but fighting had really never been his forte, and surely his Lord wouldn't wish that of him.

So, as he stood near the tree, he watched Jesus.

Jesus, no longer bound by the soldiers, slowly walked over to the one laying in anguish over the ground. The man, whom John recognized as the soldier named Malchus, was covering his ear and calling out in pain.

Crouching to be eye level with him, Jesus slowly touched the soldier's ear, whispering words John did not understand. When Jesus stood again, the man was no longer in pain, and his ear had miraculously returned to the side of his face.

Jesus said to the guards, who stood there in awe and anger, "Have you come out as against a robber, with swords and clubs, to seize me? Day after day I was with you teaching in the temple area, yet you did not arrest me; but that the scriptures may be fulfilled."

At his last word, the soldiers turned away from Peter and charged towards Jesus, this time tying his hands this time in front of him and throwing chains over his neck. Once that was finished—and Jesus had been badly beaten—one or two men turned, eyeing Peter, James, and John himself.

"You!" they called out, running after them. Panicked, John turned to look towards Peter for guidance, but he had already fled the scene, as had James.

John did the same, not looking back.

"I say to you know: Do not let your hearts be troubled. If you have faith in God, then you also have faith in me. In my Father's house there are many, many dwelling places. If there were not, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back again and take you to myself so that where I am you also may be. Where I am going, you do know the way."

"Master, we do not know where you are going; how can we know the way?"

Jesus smiled at Thomas and said, "Thomas, have you been with me for so long that you still do not know? You still doubt? I am the way. I am the truth. I am the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. If you know me, then you will also know my Father."

Thomas startled awake. He looked around at his friends. By the light of the moon, he saw the other seven of them laying on the ground and over rocks, sleeping themselves. He glanced at the sky. It was late.

"Wake up!" Thomas called.

They did so, but reluctantly.

Philip asked, "What is it, Thomas?"

"I feel as though we should go find Jesus. It's been too long. What could he be doing?"

"Praying, most likely," Simon Peter's brother, Andrew, stated.

"Andrew," Thomas glared. "Let's just go in the Garden and look for him."

Bartholomew said, "He left us here for a reason. If he wished for us to come with him, he wouldn't have left us here. And besides, Peter is with him. I'm sure he's all right."

At the moment those words were said, a man to their right came barreling down the Garden's mountain, towards them. All eight of the disciples startled, but calmed down when they saw it was John. That is, they were calm until they saw his frightened condition.

"They've seized him," John said, completely out of breath.

No one needed to ask who the "him" was, for they all knew. Jesus had been betrayed and arrested, just as he had said he would at the Last Supper.

Jesus, already bloodied and bruised, was dragged along by the Roman soldiers. They led him towards the road away from the Garden of Olives, and then turned right, towards a bridge over the Torrent of Cedron. They were leaving the Garden a different way than Jesus had entered with his Apostles.

The soldiers' choice of road was harsh. They forced Jesus to walk barefoot on the sharpest stones and the roughest roads. As he did this, cutting and bloodying his feet, they whipped him with knotted cords, calling out insults.

Jesus was silent during this, until the solders grabbed him and threw him over the bridge. He fell, first on his knees and then smacking his face onto the water and rocks. He skinned his elbows, feet, and arms. His head was nearly covered in the entire river, and it took great effort for him to lift his head up in order to not drown.

"You must be thirsty, Jesus!" one soldier called. "Quench your thirst with the water of eternal life!"

"No, no, no," another one shouted, laughing. "The water does not give us eternal life, but his words! He has the words of eternal life! We must listen to him!"

The band erupted in laughter. They, clenching the chains as to which Jesus was tangled in, slowly and painfully dragged Jesus back up the bridge, scraping his body against the sides of the stones. Jesus moaned in pain, but said nothing else.

When he was again standing, a soldier punched his face, sending him falling to the ground, where three others started kicking him in the side until one soldier called out, "Come on, unless you want to carry him."

Proceeding in their walk, they came across a path that was covered in thorns, thistles, sharp rocks, and thick pointed sticks. They shoved Jesus in the back, which he then tripped over his garments and landed on the narrow, dangerous path. He cried out. The soldiers whipped him with knotted cords until he stood to his feet, and when he did, it was seen that the section where his knees were on this tunic was totally drenched in blood, as were his arms and hands. At the tips of his fingers, blood flowed off and back onto the bloody rocks and thorns.

"That crazy John the Baptist didn't exactly make straight your way, now did he?"

"Oh, no, how could he? He's beheaded!"

They continued to torture and beat him.


	4. Jesus before Annas

Jesus before Annas

Mary didn't cry when she was told her Precious Son had been arrested. She, Mary of Magdala, and some other women hurried to the main city of Jerusalem. Lanterns and torches were lit throughout the town, and the Pharisees were beginning to knock on people's doors, awaking them and ordering them to the palace of Annas, the high priest.

Annas, Mary saw, was surrounded by twenty-eight Councilors, along with some Roman soldiers, servants of Annas, and some citizens. Mary, also accompanied by John, was ushered through the mob by her friends. She tried to get closer to her Son. She needed to get closer to her Son.

Mary stood on the corner of a pillar, eyeing over the tops of peoples' heads. She glanced around frantically, searching. Then she spotted him. He looked exhausted. His head was hung, and his hair was thin, stringy, and matted. His garment was covered in blood and mud. He did not do anything, nor say anything. Mary stifled a cry. She tugged at her veil, wrapping it tighter over her hair. Mary of Magdala was crying bitterly, just at the sight of her Lord bound by ropes and chains.

Annas, an ill-humored man with a scraggy beard, seated himself proudly, pretending as if he did not know Mary's Son, when indeed he did. He shot questions out at Jesus, such as, "Are you Jesus of Nazareth? Where are your Apostles? Your followers? Where is your kingdom? Why are you silent? Speak! What is your right to preach? Where did you study all of your preaching? Speak up to me now!"

Mary's Son raised his head and said, "I have spoken openly to the world; I have always taught in the synagogue, and in the Temple, and in secret I have spoken nothing. Why ask me? Ask them who have heard what I have spoken to them; behold, they know what things I have said."

Immediately, Mary watched as Annas, flushed with fury, struck Jesus in the face with his iron gauntlet. "How dare you answer the High Priest this way?"

Jesus stumbled to the ground, only to be beaten by the soldiers so much that blood trickled down his face. He said, "If I have spoken wrongly, testify to the wrong; but if I have spoken rightly, why do you strike me?"

"Bring me a sheet of parchment," Annas ordered, and his request was fulfilled. He then began writing, in a series of words and large letters, every single false accusation which had been brought against Mary's Son. Such as him "claiming" to the Son of God, and him threatening to destroy the Holy Temple. A tear slipped down Mary's face as he read off all the false accusations. Then he handed off the parchment, and told them to take Jesus to the Court of Caiphas, all the while the mob hissed, shouted, and presented blows towards Jesus' body.


	5. Jesus before Caiphas

Jesus Before Caiphas

Jesus was led towards Caiphas' court, greeted by the mobs hisses and jeers. Jesus turned, seeing John and Peter standing afar, watching.

Caiphas called out in a loud voice, and the crowd parted for him, similar to the way Jesus had parted the sea for Moses. Caiphas exclaimed to the crowd, "Who has disturbed the peace of this holy night? Near Passover?" Spotting Jesus, he finished with, "The blasphemer."

The crowd laughed at Jesus, and the soldiers beat him, shouting, "Answer him! Speak up! Are you dumb?" Jesus struggled to regain his balance.

So far, the pain Jesus had gone through—his beatings, his stumbles, and the words of others—near torn him apart. He wished to cry out to everyone, "I love you! I'm doing this for you!" but, to fulfill the Scriptures of Isaiah, Jesus uttered not his mouth. He wanted to, though, more than anything. Jesus could have ordered the soldiers to a stop in a trillionth of a second. He could have cured every wound, every cut, and every single pain he had by simple saying the word. He could have disappeared from the courtyard, out of the chains and ropes, and gone wherever he wished to.

But he didn't. Jesus stood there, surrounded by his haters, and took the pain of beatings and spits to the face, kicks to the gut, and curses. He bore the pain of seeing his Apostles nearby, watching, and he bore the pain of seeing his mother—his precious mother—hold back tears.

That pain was almost the worst, seeing his mother's pain. There she was, in the back of the crowd, almost the only one who didn't shout hateful words at him. Her veil was covering her hair, and only her faced showed. There were dark circles under eyes, and her face was as pale as the moon. Every once in a while, a tear fell down her cheeks, but she quickly wiped them away in order that her Son would not see her pain. But he did. He saw the inside of her heart, and her innermost thoughts. She said to him, My Son, how I hate the pain you are going through. But I know, it is your will be done, and this has to be.

When she finished her thought, Jesus nodded slightly, showing he had been listening. Showing he cared about her. Showing she would be all right.

A Roman soldier beat Jesus square in the face. Jesus stood his ground this time and listened to the accusations the entire mob yelled at him.

"He cures the sick! He casts out demons by the help of demons!"

"He called the Pharisees hypocrites!"

"He says he is going to destroy the Temple, and yet in three days, build it up again!"

One certain person charged through the crowd and paraded around Jesus, laughing and scoffing, "Lo, lo! Listen to this: He calls himself the Bread of Life, and said that whoever does not eat his flesh and drink his blood will not have eternal life!"

The crowd clenched their teeth and licked their lips, then making gnawing motions as if chewing on food.

Jesus listened as the mob made fun of the parables he told, the instructions he gave, and continued saying the crimes he had apparently committed. They laughed when recalling the story of the paralytic man at the pool of Bethsaida and how Jesus had cured him.

Caiphas, angry, raised his hands and said, "Stop with these accusations! If you have no proof, then remain silent."

A member of the Sanhedrin, whom Jesus knew by name, stood before the crowd and claimed how this was wrong. "In the dead of night? We should wait for Pilate. This isn't right! Stop it now!"

"Get him out of here!" everyone called. "Get out! Traitor! Have him killed!"

That did not stop another Sanhedrin member from saying the same thing, and the crowd pounced on him in anger and resentment. Jesus smiled in sympathy for them, but that smiled was turned into an expression of pain when he was once again kicked in the stomach.

"Enough!" Caiphas said again. He slowly walked towards Jesus, eyeing him. Jesus saw the anger in his eyes and the sins of his heart—the sins he would be dying for later this day. He saw every thought Caiphas had at that moment—and they were not pleasant thoughts.

"Answer me this, Jesus of Nazareth: Are you the Christ, the Messiah, the son of the living God?"

Silence throughout the court. Jesus needed to answer this question. So he did. In a loud and majestic voice, he proclaimed, "I AM. And I say to you now, you shall see the Son of Man sitting on the right hand of the power of God, and coming in the clouds of Heaven."

Above Jesus, he saw the clouds of Heaven open themselves at his words, and the light of his Father shining down on him. Yet Jesus also saw the devils below Caiphas, the ones in Hell, chanting just as the mob was. When Caiphas, shocked and frightened, tore his garments and called out, "He is a blasphemer! We don't need any more witnesses! This man has sinned! The penalty is death!" the devils below him cheered.

Like a union, the crowd shouted out together, "Death! Death! Death! Death!" Jesus' eyes filled with tears, and for the first time since his arrest, he cried. Not much, just a simple tear fell down his cheek, but it was enough to show the real pain he felt at that moment by those people. The mob before him contained the same people he had known since the beginning of the world. Each one of those persons had and always will be carved into the palm of his hands. He had created each and every one of them with love and care, just like his father Joseph taught him to be loving and careful with his wood working. And now here the crowd was, chanting that their Lord should be put to death.

Jesus looked at John, and nodded towards his now weeping mother. John nodded and ushered his way through the aroused mob. Upon reaching Mary, he side-hugged her and led her away.


	6. Peter Denies Jesus

Peter Denies Jesus

Peter saw Mary and Mary of Magdala, but didn't go near them. He watched Jesus from afar. He waited near the gate of the high priest, until the maid came out and said to him, "You are not one of this man's disciples, are you?"

Without evening thinking, Peter stated, "Lo. I am not." He hurried away from the maid, worried she would go tell the soldiers about him.

There was a charcoal fire, and Peter decided staying by the fire would keep him away from the Romans and out of sight of those who had seen him with Jesus before. Mostly slaves stood near the fire, rubbing their hands together in hope to warm them. There were one or two guards, so Peter stood slightly away from them. He put his hands closer to the fire, then breathed into them. He glanced around wearily, but calmed down when he realized everyone near him was mainly focused on the fire, not on him.

That was, until one man said to him, "Hey, you."

Peter looked up.

"Yeah, you. I've seen you before. You're one of his disciples. You're one of Jesus' disciples."

"No, I am not. I've never seen that man before."

The man eyed him, but let him be.

Peter heard, from behind him, the jeers and chants of the mob as they called out, "Prophecy! Who is it that struck you?" Then the cry of pain as, surely, Jesus was being beaten by all.

Another soldier slowly walked over to Peter, tilting his head, as if he was trying to identify who he was. He said, "Surely you are one of his followers, for even your accent gives you away."

Jesus' moans of pain echoed towards Peter. Peter backed up, frightened, and said, "I swear to you all, I don't know the man! I've never seen him before in my life!"

Immediately, a cock's crow interrupted his cursing. Amen I say to you, Peter, before the cock crows this day, you will deny three times that you know me. The words of his Savior came into his mind at that moment. Peter reflected back, realizing how he had promised to give his life to his Lord, promised to endure any amount of pain and torture right alongside him, and now where was he? Betraying him before all. Betraying him while his Lord was not ten yards away, most likely thinking of Peter this very moment, and how Jesus had been right.

The pain Peter felt at that moment was almost unbearable. This pain had to be far worse than if he would have endure the tortures right alongside Jesus. Peter's heart was crushed, his soul blackened by his sins. A tear tumbled down his cheek, and he covered his head with his hands. Rushing away from the charcoal fire, Peter wept bitterly, begging his God for forgiveness.


	7. Judas Returns the Silver

Judas Returns the Silver

Watching from a distance was already hard enough. Judas didn't even know why he was in the court with the rest, including Jesus. He should be out, spending his thirty pieces of silver, not leaning up against a pillar and watching this mutiny. Judas had had plans for that money, but now it really didn't seem to matter. Those...high priests had promised Judas that they only wished to speak to Jesus, nothing else. They were breaking their promise. Just talk? Jesus was beaten so much he could hardly stand. And Judas had seen him cry-he'd seen that tear fall. Never, in all the three years Judas had known Jesus, had he seen his Master cry (except when Lazarus had died). Jesus had always been so loving and happy, even when someone was dead, for then he would raise them; or ill, for then he would cure them; or trying to test him, for Jesus would then prove the Pharisees wrong. When Judas had been trying to prevent those children from pestering Jesus, Jesus had replied with a "Let the children come to me" statement. Let them come? Even when they were pestering? Judas couldn't believe it.

And he couldn't believe what was going on now. He had to find the high priest, Caiphas. He had to.

Hurrying away from the mob, Judas didn't watch where he was going. He ran into a woman accompanied by a man. When the man turned, Judas saw it was John. And when the woman turned, it was Mary, Jesus' mother. Mary had been weeping, and her eyes were puffy from the effect of such an emotional action. Her head tilted in sadness at the sight of one of her Son's Apostles.

Judas didn't know whether or not she knew that he had betrayed Jesus. Regardless, Mary reached her delicate hand up to his face and caressed it. Her caring touch nearly brought Judas to tears. He shook his head quickly and rushed past the Holy Mother, knowing full well what he had just done to her. Judas had to set it right. Not with God. No. No way could Judas face the wrath of Jesus' if he even drew near to him. Surely Jesus would be angry...wouldn't he? Judas wasn't about to find out. He would set this right, but not with God—with Caiphas.

Caiphas was found by Judas outside of the court, fumbling with his torn garments. Upon spotting Judas, the high priest scoffed and glared. "What is it that you want? Can't you see that I am busy? Lekh mipo. Spend your silver."

"I don't want your damn silver!" Judas shouted. "Release that man. Jesus of Nazareth. He has done nothing wrong. And you said you only wished to speak with him. That is not speaking with him! Let him go."

"What is it to you? You have your silver. That blasphemer is no longer your concern. Now leave. Tamshikh."

Leave? Without taking back the silver and letting Jesus go? No, this wasn't the way it was supposed to turn out. Caiphas was supposed to take back the silver and have Judas forgiven of his stupid act of betrayal. That way, Judas wouldn't have to go and be sorry in front of Jesus. He couldn't do that. Not ever. Not after he followed Jesus for three years, betrayed him, and then what? Asked for forgiveness? It was too late for Judas to be forgiven, and he knew that.

Angry, scared, and desperate, Judas grabbed the money bag near his side, loosened the string, reached his hand in, and threw the silver at the high priests. Each coin erupted in a loud noise and echoed off the walls of the temple area. The money scattered and twirled near the feet of the high priests.

At that moment, Judas remembered something Jesus had told others: No one can serve two masters. Either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and Money. 

Well, Judas wasn't going to serve either. He couldn't serve God now, not after what he did, and he obviously wasn't going to serve money anymore, for it lay at the feet of the priests.

Glaring once more, Judas hurried away from Caiphas and the rest. He had to get away. To where? Judas didn't know. Not to Jesus, not to the other Apostles. Just somewhere where he could get away.


	8. Jesus is Imprisoned

A short chapter, I know, but I couldn't think of anything else to explain how Jesus was imprisoned. But the good thing is, hopefully, in this short chapter, I touched you guys :) Every time I read this part, I get so sad all over again. The pain he went through. And for whom? ME! YOU!

Jesus is Imprisoned

The Roman soldiers, when they had finished beaten him to near death, led Jesus away. Each and every passerby-er either glared, laughed, or cried at the sight of his wounds. Jesus' left eye was swollen shut, his lip busted, and his nose possible broken. His feet had been trampled on by each of the Roman soldier's sandals, all the while bearing the pain of past thorn and rock wounds. His hair covered his face now, hiding his shame.

Yes, Jesus was embarrassed. For three years he had cured the sick, healed the lame, given sight to the blind, forgiven the sinners, and spoken of Love and Truth. Never had Jesus been cruel or harsh, or meant any kind of harm for anyone. On the contrary, Jesus had wanted every single soul to be cleansed with new life, born again. That way, those souls would not have to bear the pure torture of Hell. There was no happiness in Hell. Jesus had told the Pharisees and followers that. There was wailing and grinding of teeth. No water, just unquenchable fire. And Satan. Demons. The devils of Hell covered all the light of Heaven, covered the happiness, and covered up the glory Heaven could have brought to all. Jesus knew this world was fallen—this world he was in now. He knew that. He knew the sins every person had committed, and their thoughts. He knew of what had been in the present and what was still to come. But still, this world had sunshine on a Spring day, and flowers growing on the Mount where had spoken most of his teachings. Earth had a blue sky and a gentle breeze, and even some happiness and love spread by his followers.

But Hell had none of that. Jesus wanted to prevent every single soul from going to Hell. He wanted to plead to them, "Stop sinning! Please!" like he had so many times. Yet, mostly people would laugh at him. Mock him. Of course, Jesus could force the people of Earth to go to Heaven with him. He could in a matter of a split second, but what good was a Heaven where people were forced to stay there? From the beginning of Adam and Eve, God had given man a precious gift—free will. Yes, it was a gift, if used correctly. But that free will had gone sour the moment innocent people were tortured and killed, people turned their backs on God, and there was hardly any more Love because everyone thought they could do what they wanted.

Sometimes, Jesus regretted giving man that gift. But the people he had hand-formed in their mother's womb were not toys to play with. He couldn't coax them into believing what he wanted them to believe—they had to choose to do it for themselves. And by all Jesus' teachings, he would have thought people would have realized that he wished to help them. But yet here were the Roman soldiers, mockers, and Pharisees condemning him to death even before he had seen Pontius Pilate.

The soldiers dragged Jesus towards the cells and threw him in.

"Wait," one said, "That is too much room for him. Tie him to the ceiling. He should be happier there. He can then lift his hands up to his Father!" He went away laughing.

Grabbing his wrists with much force, a soldier forced Jesus' arms to the ceiling of the cell and tied them there. Jesus had to stand on his toes in order that his wrists wouldn't be rubbed raw by the ropes. The chains around his neck had also been tightened, so as he hung there, it was almost as if he was been choked.

The soldiers didn't leave for a matter of a few minutes. They stood there, mocking and laughing at Jesus, kicking his side, almost cracking his ribs.

"Pray, Jesus! Pray! Lift your hands to the Heavens and pray!"

"Yeah, pray to your Father!"

"No, no, no. Our Father! Remember that prayer he told us to say? Our Father...who aren't in Heaven! Hallowed be your name!"

Jesus almost couldn't bear the mockery of his prayers and instructions. He had told them to everyone with such love, and yet they spat them back with fire and brimstone.

When the soldiers finally let Jesus be, Jesus glanced his eyes towards Heaven and said, "Father, I know this is your will. But if possible, I still wish for this chalice to be taken away from me. But not as my will, but as yours."

As expected, Jesus received no answer. His Father had been with him though—in the Garden, in the court surrounded by the Sanhedrin. Could he be with Jesus now? Send an angel to comfort him?

Out of the corner of Jesus' eye, he spotted some of his Apostles—Thomas, Philip, and Andrew. They watched from a distance, not daring to get closer and barely daring to look at him. So that is what it had come to? His Apostles could hardly look at him. Yet Jesus knew what they were thinking.

Thomas wondered why Jesus was taking the pain, and there was even a thread of doubt if he really was the Messiah, since wouldn't he rescue himself?

Philip was asking the Father to save Jesus.

Andrew worried about his brother, Peter. Peter is Jesus' Rock. He should be here with us.

Jesus already knew where Peter was. He was hidden away in a house, crying and crying. Numerous times, Peter had called out, "Forgive me, Lord!" and Jesus had forgiven him. Long ago, he had.

Yet Jesus wasn't worried about Peter. He was worried about Judas. Jesus had been pouring his heart and words into Judas' mind, but Satan had taking over.


	9. Judas Hangs Himself

Oddly enough, this chapter is one of the chapters that gets the least amount of reads. I find Judas hanging himself weirdly interesting. And of course sad. Though Jesus was going through all the pain, he knew that Judas was running around the desert, trying to figure out what to do. All Judas had to do was say, "I'm sorry!" but he didn't. Please, if you are sorry for a sin, ANY sin, remember that you ARE forgiven ALREADY. You just have to KNOW that. Trust me, I've done some bad stuff, but nothing is as bad as Judas has done. You can be forgiven! You ARE forgiven!

Judas Hangs Himself

Thoughts rushed through Judas' mind as he ran away from Jerusalem towards the valley of Hinnom. The sand slowed him down, but as long as he was leaving that town, it didn't matter. Sweat trickled down his face, and he breathed heavily.

Reaching the torrent of Cedron, he cast his eyes upward, seeing the Mount of Olives. He shuddered, and at that instant these words vibrated in his ear: "Friend, what have you done? You've betrayed the Son of Man with a kiss." Unable to believe the thoughts that kept going in and out of his brain, Judas wandered under the arch of the Cedron, and a voice whispered, "It was here that Absalom put an end to his life by hanging himself. You should do the same. You've been paid for killing the Son of God. Paid! 'He who sells a soul among his brethen shall be put to death'."

Then these words: "Put an end to your misery, wretched one; put an end to your misery."

Judas considered it. He couldn't take the thoughts rushing through his head. Surely they were from God himself, condemning Judas to his life already in Hell. No way could Jesus ever forgive Judas for his horrible crime—he had betrayed the Son of God! No, Judas was sentenced to a life in Hell no matter what, and Judas figured he may as well get it over with.

So, Judas tore off his girdle, and, walking over under the arch, he tied the rope to a tree situated in the crevice of a rock. Standing on a boulder, with the noose wrapped around his neck, Judas stopped. He had the slightest hope that maybe Jesus could forgive him, but when another voice interrupted him with a, "You murdered the Son of God! End your misery, wretched one!" he closed his eyes and jumped, the noose tightening around his neck and cutting off any chance of breathing in oxygen.

Judas had killed himself.


	10. Jesus before Pilate

Jesus Before Pilate

Seated upon a donkey, Jesus was led through the town of Jerusalem five days before his Passion. The people came running down mountains and streets, carrying palm branches and blankets, for which they then laid them on the ground. One person started singing, and then the rest followed, chanting:

"Hosana to the Son of David!"

"Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!"

"Hosanna in the highest Heaven!"

Jesus waved and smiled, his heart filled with such joy as never before. This is how it was in Heaven—always happy, everyone singing and shouting words of praise. Each Apostle cheered alongside Jesus and sang, even Judas.

Stripped from all save his under garments, Jesus was led down Mount Sion, passed the eastern side of the Temple, and towards the palace of Pilate. This way was similar to the path Jesus had taken only five days earlier, when the people had called out praises. How only five days can change everything. How in only five days everyone went from honoring him to condemning him to death.

As Jesus was forced towards the palace of Pilate, the soldiers and mob threw rocks, thorns, sticks, and dirty rags for him to walk on. They yelled, "Blessed is the blasphemer! Hosanna is the lowest of Devils!"

Mary cast her eyes upon her baby boy, walking there a few yards away from her. The entire Sanhedrin surrounded him, as did the angry mob. Those evil people showed him no mercy, what with their continuous beatings and mockings.

Wearing hardly nothing, Mary knew he had to be cold with the chill from the morning. The sun had yet to come over the hill, and there was a fresh dew spread over everything metal. In the slightly gray atmosphere, Jesus' skin coloration glowed white compared to the tan bodies enveloping him. From a distance, Mary could see the dark red blood that had dried to a crusty liquid down the side of his face, starting at his crown. In instinct, her Son turned, spotting her as if he knew she had been standing there the entire time. His beautiful nose was crooked, as if broken, and his one eye was swollen and discolored even worse than the first time Mary had seen it. Barely able to stand, Jesus bowed over his body like a question mark. The chains around his neck had rubbed his skin raw, as had the ropes digging into his wrists.

When the two met eye to eye, flashbacks of that night thirty-three years ago came to mind. Thirty-three years ago Mary lay in a stable, the pains of child labor bearing down on her. Then: The glorious moment. The moment when the Son of God became flesh and was cradled in her very arms. She had watched God grow up; watched him take his first steps, read out of his first book, and stay side-by-side along her now-deceased husband Joseph while they worked together in the carpentry business. How she loved to watch them work together. It took some time, but within his seventh year Jesus was constructing work presentable enough to be sold right with Joseph's. By his twelfth, Jesus' work was almost better than Joseph's. They repaired roofs and houses, but Jesus enjoyed creating tables, chairs, and glorious carvings more. When Joseph had died, Jesus not only took care of her, Mary, but also took over the entire carpentry business.

After thirty years of staying home in Nazareth, Jesus decided it was time to spread his ministry and begin "making disciples of all nations." With a kiss farewell, Jesus walked off, away from Nazareth, with a smile. Mary had missed him dearly, yet she knew that was his purpose for coming to the world.

And so was this purpose.

Mary looked at her baby boy again, eyes locking. Jesus—her Son, her Lord, her Savior—gave her a look so filled with love and compassion that Mary's feet fell down from under her. Her eyes fluttered close, and she practically fainted, until John and Mary of Magdala caught her, stopping her escape from this world into darkness.

"Mother!" John called. "Ma nishma? Are you well?"

"Yes. I am well."

"No, let me help you home. You shouldn't have to see this."

"No, John! I'm staying with my Son."

John, reluctantly, Mary saw, let her be.

Mary was staying with her baby boy.

Pontius Pilate rubbed his eyes, hoping to wipe away the ache and tiredness. He had been up almost the entire night, writing papers, reading scrolls, and praying to the gods for guidance. Being the ruler of Nazareth was difficult. Every day he heard the complaints of the Pharisees, retold by his soldiers. And with the Passover nearing, it was up to him to keep the peace, which wasn't easy. Oftentimes, Pilate sent out more soldiers during the Passover than any other time in the year. He'd already arrested Barabbas for murder and revolting. How many more would follow?

A commotion erupted from his bedroom. Quickly, he stepped away from his papers and hurried to where the sound came from.

Peering behind the curtain surrounding his bed, he spotted his wife, Claudia, clearly in distress. She thrashed and turned, whimpering and mumbling.

"Claudia?" he questioned.

She did not awake from her nightmare.

Pilate, dearly concerned, prepared to arouse her, yet a knock on the door interrupted him. Angered, Pilate hurried over to the door, only to find one of his Roman soldiers standing before him. The soldier looked aggravated.

"What is it? What is the time of day?"

"It is seven in the morning, sir," the soldier answered.

"Why are you disturbing me?"

"Slih'a, Pontius, but there has been a disturbance regarding the high priests. They and some soldiers have arrested a man."

"Let them handle it."

"They wish to condemn him to death."

"Death?"

"Yes. It seems, according to them, that he has been causing riots."

"Who is this man?"

The soldier looked away, then turned back and said, "Jesus of Nazareth."

After a few minutes of waking himself up, checking on his wife, and putting away his papers, Pontius Pilate followed the soldier outside to the front of his palace. He seated himself on his high-chair and looked down upon Annas, Caiphas, and some other high priests, as well as a large mob. The high priests were wise not to enter the Praetorium.

Then, amidst the yelling mob and the Pharisees, there was a beaten man at the front. His back curled over, as if he was exhausted. The chains and ropes Pilate saw around him had rubbed his skin raw. He did not protest to be released, as so many other criminals had before.

Pilate nodded towards the soldier near the prisoner. The soldier pulled on the attached chains, which then meant Pilate wished to look on the rioter full in the face. This "Jesus" slowly lifted his head up. Upon seeing his pained condition, Pilate clenched his teeth.

"Tell me, Caiphas. Do you always beat your criminals before you bring them to me?"

Caiphas, obviously surprised, answer back, "I suppose you do not know who this is—"

"I've heard who this is. Jesus of Nazareth. Still, what has he done to receive such ill-treatment?"

"Your Excellency, he has disrupted the Temple."

Pilate was not amused. Simply disrupting the Temple was not reason enough to beat a man so much he could hardly stand. He wished to release the man this instant, but instead he said, "Go on..."

"He has claimed he shall destroy the Temple, yet in three days raise it up. He has insisted we, the high priests, are hypocrites!"

Pilate could care less if someone called the high priests hypocrites. Honestly, he could care less if some radical—or whoever this Jesus was—threatened to destroy the Temple. Sure, it was a little strange for a man to just outright say he will destroy the sacred Temple, and yet in three days build it back up. That Temple had been under construction for forty-six years! And in three days he would raise it up? Yes, it was strange. But then again, the high priest could be lying—or exaggerating.

"Your Excellency," the high priest continued, "this man is a criminal. We would not have brought him to you unless he has broken out laws."

"Then take him. Judge him according to your own law. I want nothing to do with him." For Pilate, it seemed pretty logical.

Yet, of course, Caiphas had something to say about that. "We have a law," he said, "and according to our law, it is not lawful for any of us to condemn a man to death."

Pilate stood. "Death?" Why would such a man, a silent man at that, be condemned to the death penalty? At the worse, it would be a scourging—if that. But so far, Pilate didn't have any reason to even hold this man prisoner.

Yet the high priests wouldn't stop calling out accusations, and how the supposed criminal had called himself a king. That sparked Pilate's interest. He motioned for a soldier, then towards Jesus. The soldier grabbed the chain hanging from Jesus' neck and led him forward. Dragged is a better word, since the Jesus man could hardly pick up his feet in order to walk up those steps. It was obvious by his slow movements and painful expressions that he was hurting.

When they were inside the palace, Pilate pounced on Jesus for answers in order to end this trial. "Are you the King of the Jews?"

Close up, Pilate saw the extent of the damage the high priests and soldiers had done to the man. Black eye, broken nose, bloody and bruised face, not to mention the scrapes and cuts on his legs. Jesus wore only a small, thin garment, so Pilate could see the large bruises on both his legs, back, and front body.

Those high priests and soldiers did not show any mercy to this Jesus.

Jesus didn't answer for a long while, but when he did, he lifted his head up higher than before and stated, "Are you asking because others have told you about me, or because you would like to know yourself?"

Offended, Pilate asked, "I am not a Jew, am I?"

Jesus made no reply, to which Pilate became a little angry. He needed answers. "Your own nation and the high priests have sent you to me, saying you should be put to death. What have you done to deserve that?"

This time, Jesus answered. And this time, he answered more confidently and more majestically than ever before. "My kingdom is not of this world," he said. "If my kingdom were of this world, my servants would be fighting that I should not be delivered to these Pharisees. But as it is seen, my kingdom is not from here."

"So you are a king, then?"  
"You say I am a king. For this reason I was born, and for this reason I came into the world that I should give testimony to the truth. Everyone that knows truth hears my voice."

Angered, Pilate said, "Truth! What is truth?" Without waiting for an answer, Pilate hurried out of the palace, to face the mob. Jesus and the soldier followed.

"Listen!" Pilate called out, raising his hands for silence. "I find no wrong in this man."

At this, the mob cried out in anger, shouting many more accusations.

"He claimed he is a king!"

"He says we should have to eat his flesh and drink his blood!"

"He claims to destroy the Temple!"

"He knocked over the money changers and dines with tax collectors!"

Caiphas looked around at the crowd as they started to riot. Obviously, they were angry. Pilate saw that.

"Isn't this man a Galilean?"

The high priest nodded slowly.

Pilate smiled. "Tov. Then he is not of my concern, he is of Herod's. Take him to Herod and have Herod judge him."

Walking out, Pilate was greeted by his wife Claudia. She was not happy.

"Do not condemn this man," she said, fear in her voice. "I suffered much in a dream because of him."

"Claudia, did you not listen? Herod is going to take care of him."

"This man is holy. If he is to return to you, let him free."

"He is not going to return to me, Claudia."


	11. Jesus before Herod

Jesus before Herod

The palace of the Tetrarch of Herod was not that far from where Pilot stayed. A Roman messenger had been sent ahead, so Herod knew they were coming. And he was excited. He'd heard about Jesus of Nazareth from a handful of random people, not to mention his slaves and soldiers. He'd also heard of John the Baptist, of course. Who hadn't? John had spoken of this wonderful, majestic Messiah that was foretold of coming, and apparently Jesus of Nazareth was him. John had been beheaded because of Herod. Maybe Jesus could answer some of Herod's questions. He sure had questions about this Messiah's power.

Herod lounged on cushions, his lady slaves and soldiers surrounding him. The high priests entered his palace, and a beaten man stumbled forward, with chains around his neck and ropes tied tightly around his wrists. He didn't look up.

"This is Jesus of Nazareth?" Herod asked.

Caiphas said, "Yes. He—"

Herod scoffed. The slaves laughed. This man seemed like an ordinary man from the streets! Beaten, bloodied, and exhausted, this wasn't exactly a very Messiah looking man.

That high priest Caiphas began again. "He is a criminal. A blasphemer, King Herod. He is guilty of threatening to destroy the sacred Temple, along with—"

A man spoke up in the back, "Along with casting out demons, with the help of demons!"

"And telling us to eat his body and drink his blood!"

"And eating with tax collectors!"

Herod hardly listened. He stood himself up, smiled at his lady servant, and walked over to Jesus, all while accusations were screamed at him.

He eyed Jesus. "Look at me."

Jesus didn't.

"Do you not know I am a king?" Herod whispered. "Are you a king?"

No answer. Jesus almost looked as though he was sleeping.

"Do you perform miracles? Will you do a little miracle for me?"

Jesus glanced up, stared Herod in the eye, then dropped his head back down to his chest.

"Why do you not answer your king? Are you a criminal? What have you done to be called a criminal? Do you not know that I can sentence you to the death penalty? Why are you silent? Work a miracle for me! Preach to me! Be the Messiah you say you are! John the Baptist says you are! Do you wish to be beheaded like your cousin John? Answer your king!"

Still no reply!

Herod continued to pound Jesus with questions.

After many minutes, Herod, quite angry, turned to Caiphas. "Get this poor excuse for a Messiah out of my sight. He is pitiful. Much too pitiful to be any sort of king."

"But, sir," Caiphas pleaded, "his crimes!"

"I said get him out of my sight and out of my palace! He is a mad man, not a criminal."

Herod's soldiers dragged Jesus out of the palace, but the high priests stayed behind, pleading for Herod to condemn this man to death for his sins. But Jesus had committed no sins. Not one.

During this argument between Caiphas and the king, more than two hundred soldiers surrounded Jesus and laughed at him. One took a sack-cloth, cut a hole in it, and threw it over his head. Another grabbed a robe of Herod's and clothed him with it, which then sent a train reaction for the other soldiers to bow down to him, saying, "Praise the king! The pitiful little Messiah, adorned in a cloth and a robe!"

Lining up, each and every soldier took turns punching Jesus, spitting on him, and ramming him into the rock wall. Some held sticks and struck him upside the head. Nearly every time, Jesus stumbled backwards. And when he did, the soldiers pushed him harder against the wall, cracking his head nearly open. Blood trickled from his crown, dropping on the robe that weighed down his frail body.

Jesus looked upon them with compassion, pleading silently with them to have a change of heart and realize what they were doing. Beating the Son of God! Jesus knew it had to be done, but he wished with all of his heart that those who beat him would instead turn their hearts and souls to him so they could be forgiven and one day enter the Kingdom of Heaven.

Moaning and groaning in pain, Jesus tried to stop the flow of tears down his cheeks. The more he showed his misery, the more the soldiers beat him, mocked his pain, and spat upon his face.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jesus spotted the small assembly of angels that wept for him. They hugged and cried, those angels from Heaven did. Cried for him, the pain he was enduring, and the pain that was still to come.

Jesus knew that if he thought about all he still had to go through…he wouldn't be able to do it.


	12. Jesus is Returned to Pilate

Jesus is Returned to Pilate

It was nearly eight in the morning when John saw Jesus being led back to the court. The sun was just starting to peek over the mountains, casting a dim glow on the entire area. A slight breeze blew through, rustling the trees and brushing John's medium-length hair in front of his face.

A man pushed him forward, nearly to a fall, yelling that John better "get his sorry hide out of the way."

Without commenting, John grabbed the Blessed Mother's arm and maneuvered her to a safer place, away from the intense crowd yet still in reasonable distance of where Jesus was now—before Pilate once again.

"Bring him to me," Pilate said, obviously irritated. John supposed Pilate hoped Herod would take care of his Lord, but that had not been the case.

Watching, John saw Jesus forced up the palace stairs, wearing a long robe. Exhausted and overly beaten, Jesus tripped over the garment, his head cracking on the marble staircase. The soldiers forced him back up.

Pilate stood and announced to the crowd, "Herod has not found wrong in this man, and neither do I."

Caiphas called out, "He is a criminal!" The crowd shouted out in agreement.

"All right! As you know, it is a certain time near Passover where you have the choice of having a prisoner." Pilate motioned to his soldier, and he walked off, following unsaid orders. "Now, I ask you: Which prison do you wish to be released to you, Barabbas, a murderer and revolutionist, or Jesus, called the Christ?"

The crowd grew loud with excitement. Some shouted out, immediately, "Barabbas!" while most remained mute.

Mary of Magdala, distraught beside John, shouted, "Free Jesus! Jesus the Christ!"

The Blessed Mother tightened her veil around her neck, but said nothing.

Then the high priest, loud enough for everyone in the court to hear, exclaimed, "Free Barabbas!"

Hearing that the high priests had agreed on a prisoner to release, the rest of the crowd chanted along with them, "Free Barabbas! Free Barabbas!"

John saw Pilate glance around in a nervous-anger. He seemed unsure what to do.

Then, off to the side of the palace, Pilate's wife, Claudia, came hurrying out as the crowd continued. She whispered to her husband, all the while rubbing her hands together. She motioned towards Jesus, then to Barabbas. Pilate shook his head. Claudia whispered more, than walked away.

Pilate raised his hands. "I ask you again: Who do you wish for me to release to you? The murderer Barabbas, or Jesus, said to be the King of the Jew?"

John gripped his Mother's arm as they waited for the crowd to answer. He honestly knew that this was meant to be—Mary had told him that—yet there was the smallest bit of hope that maybe…maybe somehow Jesus would be released. Maybe somehow Jesus would be handed back to his mother, healed, continue his teachings, and die of old age. Maybe somehow the Roman soldiers would release Jesus this minute…

That didn't happen. Instead, Caiphas shouted out, "He is not a king! He is not King of the Jews! He is blasphemer! Release Barabbas!"

"Barabbas! Barabbas! Barabbas!"

At the sound of his name, the real criminal beside Jesus began laughing. He threw up his hands, yet the soldiers pinned them behind his back. The crowd booed, but continued to shout his name for his release.

"If this chalice shall pass by…" John heard his unrelated mother whisper. He looked at her. Eyes puffy, face pale, she looked like some sort of ghost. Yet she was the holy Mother of God—of the beaten near-to-death Lord many feet away from her.

"Fine!" Pilate exclaimed. He nodded towards the Romans holding Barabbas down, in which they then released him with much anger. Barabbas hurried down the palace steps, through the crowd, his arms waving in great triumph. The crowd continued to show their discontent, yet laughed since John's Lord remained standing on the palace steps, condemned.

"Your will be done, Lord…" Mary the Mother said.

"What do you want me to do with Jesus?"

Silence.

Then, the most horrid words ever: "Crucify him!"

Both Marys nearly fainted. John caught his mother, and had to maneuver around her to grab Mary of Magdala's arm before she collapsed to the ground. She whispered, "Lo! No! No! No!"

Mary the Mother said nothing. A tear slid down her cheek, John saw, and she closed her eyes and continued to whisper. John turned towards the front, where he saw his Lord standing. Barely standing, really. Nearly falling over in exhaustion and overly beaten-ness. His head hung low, it almost seemed as though he was sleeping. Or praying. Probably praying.

John tried to do so, too, yet couldn't. How could he pray to the Father—and to Jesus, two people yet one God—when his Lord was being treated in such a way? What was John supposed to ask? To take this chalice away from Jesus? Yes, he wanted to ask that, and had a couple times, but it seemed almost impossible that Jesus would honestly be released from the Romans. They were the Romans. And besides, if the Father wished to rescue his Son, then why didn't he? Didn't Jesus once say, when he was talking about the Good Shepard, that he had the power to lay down his life and the power to take it up again? John reflected back to Jesus' words: "This is why the Father loves me, because I lay down my life in order to take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down on my own accord. I have power to lay it down, and power to take it up again. This command I have received from my Father." God the Father loved Jesus because he was dying? Because he was suffering? And for what? His sheep? John had just figured that a metaphor—a parable. Sure, John knew it meant something, but he still didn't quite know what. What could a Shepard and his sheep symbolize, anyway? And yes, Jesus had said he had the power to die, or the power to live. So why didn't he live? Or at least take away some of his pain. John knew Jesus could do it. He knew Jesus could heal the wounds marring his face and body. Yet why didn't he? Why let him suffer so?

"Crucify him?" Pilate asked, obviously shocked beyond words. "Why? What evil has he done to receive such a punishment?"

The crowd did not reply to the simple and logical question, but continued to shout out, "Crucify him! Crucify him!" Pilate glanced over to the corner of his palace, where, John saw, he was looking at his wife Claudia. Claudia shook her head and walked away, somber.

Pilate turned back to the crowd, staring them down. Riots began to break out. Women screamed, men shouted, and even some children squealed with fear. The Romans started pushing the crowd back, but they broke loose from the ribbon of soldiers and scrambled towards the palace. Some soldiers even began drawing out their weapons, challenging the crowd to get closer to Pilate. The most adventurous of the bunch did, pushing past the guards, up to the steps, all the while shouting, "Crucify him!" A crazed man, one who looked much like Barabbas himself, was kneeling before the bloodied, beaten, and tired Lord. He shouted loud enough for all to hear, "This man is evil! This man is Satan! I tell you now, Your Excellency, are you going to allow Satan to live? Are you—" Yet before he could finish his horrid sentences, a soldier had knocked him upside the head with a club. The sight of an unconscious man being dragged away stirred up the crowd even more. And Pilate saw that.

"Here, here!" Pilate called, raising his hands. This silenced the crowd some. He turned towards Jesus, then back to the crowd. "Due to the accusations towards this Jesus of Nazareth, I am agreeing to allow this man to be flogged according to his so-called crimes. He shall not be crucified. He shall be scourged and returned to me for a final sentence."

And with that, Pilate stormed away into his palace.

The crowd cheered that Jesus was to be scourged, yet grumbled that he wouldn't be crucified.

John trembled in fear.


	13. Jesus is Scourged

This chapter makes me cry :'(

Jesus is Scourged

Pushed through the rioting crowd with great force and no care, Jesus almost wanted to fall over and die right then and there. The pain he had so far endured was nothing but a small fraction of the pain that was yet to come. Jesus could see ahead into the future, but when he did, his eyes watered, his brain hurt, and he could hardly pray to ask for strength. The scourging he would endure…the crowning of the thorns… Jesus couldn't think about it, for if he did, he was afraid he wouldn't be able to complete his mission. But he had to do this. He had to. His Father was counting on him and the sins of the entire world were, too. Jesus didn't wish for anyone of these Roman soldiers, rioters, and sinners to go to Hell. It had not been his and his Father's dream when they had first created the world and man in seven days. He and his Father wished for…peace and happiness and goodness and praise. They had wanted the entire world and everyone in it to be happy.

But Satan had tempted, Eve had fallen, and Adam along with her. With that simple turning away from God, the golden gates of Heaven were slammed shut with great force. No soul could get in the glorious gates to the paradise where he resided. If people died, the holy souls needed to stay in Limbo, at least until Jesus had been sent to the world thousands of years later and would save everyone. And open the gates. That way each and every soul had a chance at Heaven.

Jesus wanted to tell them that! He wanted to so badly! And he even had at times—in his parables, in his teachings, in his care and love. But the world was so blind. He hardly recognized it from the Garden of Eden he had so carefully and wonderfully made. In that Garden, there was every plant imaginable—the lily, cactus, forget-me-not, sundew. Every animal at peace with each other—the lions and the zebras, the gazelles and the tigers, the blue bird and the dragonfly. The sun always shined, and Adam and Eve practically breathed in the love of God.

Then they had sinned. The world became corrupted, evil, and was now turning against him. But Jesus wasn't angry with his son and daughter. He had given them free will. They could sin or not sin. He wasn't going to force them to follow him. They had made their choice, and God was forced to sentence them to a life of hardship outside of the glorious Garden, since only holiness could be in there, and Adam and Eve were no longer holy. But even if Eve hadn't eaten the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, someone else would have. Eve's son would have, and if not him, one hundred days later another person would have. No one was perfect, and no one could be sin-free.

Jesus knew that, which is why he was being pushed rudely through a crowd, battered and bruised in a way no King of kings should ever be.

Led to the north side of Pilate's palace, Jesus bore the pain of being beaten by the Roman's sticks with silence. Occasionally the hurt of it all caused his mouth to open and his cries of distress to be heard, but mostly he remained mute, as foretold by the Scriptures.

Awaiting for him stood six other executioners. They were large men, burly and confident in themselves and everything they did. Jesus knew each one of their names. They were written in the palm of his hand. Yet the only thing in the palm of each one of their hands was a whip of some sort. Laughing and making jokes, the shisha seemed half-drunk. They all wore armor over their chest, and sandals. Jesus used to wear sandals like that. When he did his carpentry work. Or his ministry work.

"Get a move on!" A soldier pushed Jesus, then whipped him with a wooden rod. Jesus neither welcomed the pain nor wished for it to leave him. He didn't call out, "Stop!" or even turn away, hoping to escape the blow. He simply endure it. For the world. For the Egyptians, the Dutch, the Japanese, the Mexicans, the Americans, the Irish, and every other race that had and would walk this earth. He did it for them.

The soldiers ripped off the robe gifted to Jesus by Herod. In doing so, Jesus fell prostrate over the ground. The forgotten wounds on his knees and elbows did not welcome the new pain easily. Jesus groaned, and tried to remain on the ground for as long as possible, but a soldier came and kicked him in the back, shoving him forward towards the scourging pillar. Taken as a cue, Jesus crawled towards the three foot high pillar with iron rings at the top. He glanced at his hands. As he slowly moved forwards, his palms, wounded, left red hand prints on the white ground. Jesus used to cure people with those hands. He would simply touch them and they would be not only physically cured, but spiritually cured, sins forgiven. Sometimes, there would be that one soul who had the greater faith…the one who believed in him even more, such as the centurion who pleaded for his servant to be cured. Jesus was going to come to the house, but the centurion had stopped him with an "Adonai Elohai, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but just say the word and my servant shall be healed." Jesus knew the centurion would say this, yet he couldn't mask the pleasant surprise that came over his face regardless. All of Israel Jesus had not found such faith, and he loved it. That was the reason he came to this world—to change the hearts of many and show them his love, his compassion, and his free gift for everyone. Some wanted that gift, while others did not. Either way, Jesus knew, throughout his entire childhood and into adulthood that he would have to die for every sin of every person in the world. He looked forward to it, yet he dreaded it.

Still on all fours, Jesus fumbled with his garments as he struggled to remove them up and over his head. His arms were sore, bloody, bruised, and swollen, so it was near impossible for him to remove his tunic and other garments. Yet he did, trembling, and removed every piece of article from his body. The crowd laughed at his exposed skin.

Before Jesus could regain himself to a stand, one more ruffian kicked Jesus from behind, and he fell forward, his face being shoved into the pillar he was to be tied to.

He groaned as the two of the six grabbed his bruised and swollen hands and thrust them in the iron rings. They laughed as Jesus kneeled before the wooden pillar, unable to stand, what with his so many injuries and hands in such an awkward position.

"Stand up, you fool! Stand up so you can get the whipping you deserve!"

At this, Jesus tried to stand. He really did, but his legs felt so weak from under him. Jesus had never experienced such pain and fatigue before, and it was literally unbearable.

He collapsed onto the hard ground, and one soldier, whom Jesus knew with the, could he say, most compassion, assisted him up. Jesus' legs wobbled from under him, and his hands shook like a leaf in the wind. He eyed the crowd forming around him, and his heart yearned to preach to them. He yearned to preach love and forgiveness, even as the Pharisees and rioters shouted hate and vengeance to him.

An executioner, the drunkest one, walked over to Jesus and waved something in front of his face. Jesus recognized it immediately as a scourging weapon. The handle was long, and what was tried from it were numerous, long, strips of leather, knots at the end. Jesus had constructed something like that similar when he had stormed through the temple area and knocked over all the money, set the animals free. Jesus had been so sad that day. That was his Father's House! Yet everyone there, selling and attending, were hypocrites, and he had told them so.

But he still loved them. No matter what any person did, any sin they committed, he loved them more than anything. Yes, even the Romans. Even the executioners that were about to scourge him.

Speaking of executioners, all six of them surrounded Jesus from the front, staring him in the face, waving their identical weapons around. They laughed, slapped each other on the back, and called out foul words to him.

Jesus looked down at his hands, but looked away when he saw how much they were shaking. Jesus was pretty sure they would shake right out of the iron clasps, and honestly, that is what he wanted. But he had to do this.

"Ready?" the main soldier in charged ask.

The shisha nodded eagerly, and they sauntered over beside and behind Jesus, weapons raised. Jesus closed his eyes, looked at his trembling hands, and then raised his head to the heavens. He whispered, ever so softly, "Ha Lev shelee mookan, Abba."

"Echad!"

Mary the Mother winced.

"Shnai'yim!"

She pulled her veil closer around her face.

"Shloshah!"

A tear slipped down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away. It wouldn't due to allow her son, who was enduring such pain, see her cry from simply watching him endure it. Yet she couldn't prevent another teardrop from sliding down her face and dripping through her veil. She could feel the warm liquid trail from her eye to her chin, and the warmth almost comforted her. She needed warmth and she needed comfort that instant—the instant as she watched her beloved Son and Lord be nearly killed by whippings.

John side hugged her, and she thanked him for it with a slight smile. Yet when Mary looked at his solemn face, she felt guilty for smiling, even if she was grateful for the love and care her Son's Apostle was showing to her.

Mary turned back to Jesus, new-found tears building up in her eyes and falling down her face without her able to stop them. Her son, writhed with pain, lay completely exposed on the ground, his body stretched out with only his hands raised higher, prisoned by iron clamps. The whipping weapons left marks on his back, on his legs. Red, painful marks that Mary knew, if Jesus were to be released that instant, would never heal. The moans escaping from his mouth, Mary noticed, seemed more like moans of prayer than moans of pain, and that caused her more sorrow.

Of course, Mary wasn't angry with the Romans, nor John, nor Mary of Magdala. She knew this had to happen. Jesus had never really told her in words, but more in thoughts and the way he prayed with her. The way he preached to others, his early years in life in the Temple and his three years of travel ministry. Sure, she was distraught. Nearly distressed beyond common sense. But this had to be.

The main executioner in charge called out twenty lashes, in which the twentieth one left a large, long, black and blue welt upon the back of her Son. The shisha, panting heavily, stood away from the so-called criminal, the whips still white-knuckle gripped in their hands. Blood dripped off the ends, landing near their feet—which were also covered in streaks of red liquid. Echad executioner took one step back, and Mary noticed how his sandal left a vermillion imprint on the white flooring. She nearly wept at the sight of that.

But her heart nearly tore in two when she saw her baby boy laying sprawled out on the ground, his hands higher up and his head hanging. She could hardly look at the stripes on his back, yet she couldn't look away.

It almost seemed as if the slaughterers were done with Jesus—done killing him. The one in charge simply stared at Jesus, a smirk on his face.

What happened next made the entire crowd gasp in shock. Jesus—naked, beaten, bloody, bruised, striped, and near-to-death—slowly rose to his feet. His groans and moans could be heard a mile away, yet he still pushed up on his feet—his hands still in the iron clasps—and slowly came to a stand. Blood from old and new wounds seeped out and down his face, back, side, and legs. He looked near ready to faint—eyes closed, face pale and swollen. Yet he was standing.

And Mary knew what that meant.

At the sight of him, the leader of all stood from behind his table and shouted, "Impossible!"

The crowd of rioters, Pharisees, and a handful of Christ-followers gasped and conversed among themselves as to what this meant. Mary looked at Caiphas, and their eyes met for a split second. Before he looked away, his mouth curled in an evil grin.

"Scourge him!" the Pharisee then shouted. "Scourge him! Whip him! He wants more!"

The crowd then began picking up the words and chanting them in sync.

"Lo!" Mary of Magdala shouted out. "Bavakasha."

Mary the Mother, however, did not say anything. She simply watched the scene unravel before her like a ball of sheep's wool yarn.

The executioners raised their hands in applause, encouraging the crowd to get louder, in which they did, Caiphas leading the revolution. When the sound became too loud, the Roman in charge called out, "Silence!" In an instant the entire square quieted down and watched as the Roman walked away from his table, towards Jesus. He eyed the wounded man, almost in disgust. But Jesus remained standing, trying to hide the shaking that escaped from his hands. At the sight of the man's fear, the Roman, Mary saw, seemed to come to a decision. He marched back towards his table, sat, and spoke to the shisha. They laughed, smiled, and cheered, then hurried over to the table which held the scourging weapons. Each of them picked up the same weapon—some sort of thorny stick, covered in knots and splinters. Mary's eyes flooded with tears at the sight of such a weapon, yet none fell. John wrapped his arms around her and Mary of Magdala, who was, on the contrary, weeping bitterly.

Raising the thorny sticks high up in the air, the shisha once again waited for the command of their leader. They danced around slightly, antsy to begin the horrid whipping. The leader nodded. One executioner smiled, raised his weapon, and brought it down upon the back of Jesus with great force.

Mary didn't watch.

Jesus wished unconsciousness. He wished to faint, to black out, to be unaware of the pain for only a few seconds. He wished all of this was over. He wanted the pain to be gone. But not even his physical pain was as aching as his emotional. He earned to reach his arms out to his children, embracing them in a hug and whispering in their ear, "You are mine. I love you." Yet he didn't. Instead, he spoke quietly into the hearts of each one of the Romans, Pharisees, and executioners and hoped for them to change their opinion of him. He already knew if they would or would not. And the ones who wouldn't turn to him caused his pain to be even more excruciating.

The sun beat down upon his back, almost boiling the blood and blisters. He could just barely hear the flies buzzing near his face. Despite the constant weapons waving around, the flies were drawn to the blood.

Time continued to pass by, but for Jesus it seemed like an eternity. Though he had been from the beginning of the world, and even before that, nothing seemed as long as the whipping. The scourging. The horrid pain he was forced to endure for the sins of the world. For every person named John, including his own beloved Apostle. For every girl named Claudia—the ones who had lived and who were yet to be made in his image. Yes, he was even thinking of his children who wouldn't be physically alive for thousands of years. As he told his son Jeremiah long ago, "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations." He knew the thousands of Maria's, thousands of Noah's, thousands of Grace's that had and would walk this world—and he was doing this all for them. Not for him, not to so that he could get back to Heaven quicker and stop preaching on Earth. Not to prove some sort of point. He was doing this out of Love.

But very few saw that.

Exhausted and in pain unimaginable by any human being, Jesus now lay on the white ground, his hands tied up above his head, his feet protruded behind him. He could hardly think now. His wounds, he knew, were so… He just couldn't think about it.

Then, even though he knew this was to happen, yet he was still startled by the brute force of the executioners, they unclamped one of his hands and shoved him. He flopped over onto his severely wounded back with only a groan. Everyone laughed, including the Romans, executioners, and Pharisees. As well as the bystanders.

Both eyes nearly swollen, Jesus could hardly look around at his surroundings. He knew what was going on, knew who was laughing, who was weeping, and who was staring at him in disgust. Yet he wanted to really see them. No, not them. He wanted to see his mother. His beloved mother, Mary. Queen of the Heavens, Mother over the entire Earth—not just him. He needed to see her.

Turning his head sideways a bit, where he knew he'd find her, he forced his left eye open. The sight of her, in her black veil and with swollen, red eyes, truly did tear his heart into two pieces.

Mother…

At that moment, thorns dug threw his stomach, sticking right into his skin many inches. He yelped in pain, but didn't called out for them to seize. This happened over and over again—thorns entering his body at the most uncomfortable of places—his thighs, his stomach, his face, even. Sometimes, he felt so drowsy, so in pain, that he couldn't feel the hurt. The emotional, yes. The physical? Well, this time it seemed as though the Father was allowing his Son just a tad bit of mercy. Or maybe Jesus was truly going faint.

"…but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint."

That was written by Isaiah, nearly 700 years before Jesus was born of Mary. Jesus loved Isaiah, for he wrote everything out of love for his Lord. The verse, one Jesus had helped write, comforted him slightly. He trusted in his Father, and how he would love to walk and not faint…yet he couldn't. Really, he could. He could stand up and walk about, his wounds disappearing in a trillionth of a second. Yet he didn't. He couldn't. He couldn't because he loved them. He couldn't because he loved the world. Yes, he hated how they scourged and beat him, but it had to be because Jesus loved all those starting from Adam and Eve to the last person who would ever be born into the world—yes, he near that person's name, too. He loved them. He loved the murderers, the rapists, the thieves, as well as saints, nuns, priests and pastors. He loved the sinner, not the sin. And he was doing this for the sinners, because of the sins.

Three quarters of an hour must have passed as Jesus endured all the whippings. He endured the cords, thorns, and glass pieces that were thrust into his exposed body. His embarrassment was great, but he hardly was concerned about that—so great was his pain.

Then, out of nowhere, a man came rushing into the crowd, called out, "Cease! Stop this! Bevashaka! This innocent man shall not be scourged to death!" Jesus knew the man, yet he could hardly see out of his swollen eyes the physical appearance of his rescuer. He felt the iron claps around his wrists loosen, and Jesus immediately fell limp onto the ground, in a puddle of his own blood. His lips kissed the liquid. He was forced to move his head a few inches so that he would not taste the redness—a task that required great effort.

Seeing that the whipping had officially concluded, the crowd started to disperse, like the Shepard had been struck and the flock was scattered. Jesus knew it a miracle from his Father that the Romans had actually listened to the man, whom, Jesus knew, to be nothing more than a regular civilian.

Eyes opening slowly, Jesus laid there, in his blood, as he watched the feet of many walk away. The shisha remained, however, and beat him with sticks, yelling that he stand. Jesus did, but with the greatest difficulty. Oh, how his arms ached! How is body yearned to be still—yearned to feel numb. How he wished for the gentle touch of his mother, the company of his beloved Apostle John, and the love of his Heavenly Father. How he wished to no longer feel hate by the people whose names he had written inside his palm…

"Stand, you blasted man! Is it so hard now?"

"Oh, yeah," one executioner shouted, "it's a lot harder to stand up now! We gave it to you good, didn't we?"

"I don't think he can stand, men! He can't be the King of the Jews, then, can he?"

That last statement gave Jesus the final push he needed to come to an entire stand. He wobbled and nearly fell, but he was standing. One man threw his garment at him with great force, which again nearly made him stumble to the ground. Jesus closed his eyes and fumbled with the tunic, trying desperately to put it over his heads, but his hands, arms, eyes, head, everything was in such pain, he could barely comprehend the task of maintaining a stand.

Showing some mercy, if one could call it that, one male helped Jesus with his clothes—thrust it over his head, actually. The pains of the cloth touching his severely opened and bleeding wounds brought newly pronounced wounds Jesus didn't know he could feel.

Jesus was then led towards the guard-house, all the while being poked, prodded, and made a joke of as if he was an animal on display. For one second, all shisha of the men were occupied telling a very mean joke and Jesus was able to dab the blood falling into his eyes with the corner of his garment. The effort brought up more new pains than it did sweet relief.

So, the King of kings, Lord of lords, and Savior over all stood there. Pondering, praying, and simply trying to uphold a stand.


	14. Peter's Prayer

Hello, all. Thank you for reading this far into my Jesus Story. I hope so far that my story has somehow touched you in ways you didn't think. 

In this part. I decided to touch up on Peter. Oftentimes, people forget about Peter during the Passion. Sure, everyone should be focused on Jesus and what he went through during those moments, but when Peter runs away from the charcoal fire, he could be forgotten. In this chapter, I hope to remind, you, the reader, of the agony Peter went through as he begged God's forgiveness. And please remember, that no matter what sin you have committed, and can't be worse than what Judas or Peter did. You can either be Judas or Peter. Judas betrayed Jesus, yet he didn't ask for forgiveness though Jesus WANTED to forgive him. Peter betrayed Jesus THREE TIMES and even cursed, and HE ran off, wept, and begged forgiveness. So no matter what you have done, it can't be worse than what Judas and Peter did. And please, be Peter and know that you ARE forgiven of your sins, no matter what they are :)

Like, share, and PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE review! Give me suggestions as to what I should also write about. Do you wish to see another view point? Let me know! 

Peter's Prayer

Huddled in the corner, Peter wept. He didn't cease crying in the least. He could feel his eyes swell shut and the dried tears now felt like blisters on his cheek. His nose had yet to stop running, so he continued to wipe it on his sleeve. Hair wild, clothes soiled, feet aching from his long, stumbly run to this familiar house, Peter was nearly exhausted. He had no idea how long he had cried—and was continuing to do so—since he had betrayed Jesus. Maybe ten minutes, maybe three hours.

Betrayed Jesus. Not just Jesus. His Lord. His Savior. The King of Kings and Lord of Lords, born of a virgin Mary. God made into flesh. Peter had betrayed God himself. The newfound realization brought an abundance of tears back down his face. The sobs escaped his mouth with loud cries. He wailed so much, he began to hiccup. The funny act mostly committed by young children nearly made him smile. Jesus had loved children. "Let the children come to me. Do not prevent them, for the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to such as these." The Kingdom of Heaven belonged to children. Not to sinful, betraying, selfish, cowards like Peter. In some ways, Peter was worse than Judas. Yes, even in those moments of crying, Peter couldn't help but think of what Judas had started—what he had done. Judas had been the first one to betray Jesus. But Peter had been the second. Peter had been the last, surely. Peter had been Jesus' rock, and now he was Jesus' betrayer. Oh, and how Peter had glared at Judas. How Peter had had murder in his eyes. Yes, murder. Judas, betraying Jesus? To the Romans? Unheard of.

Yet Peter saw how he was even worse than Judas. Over the three years of Jesus' teachings, Judas had been somewhat distant from the other eleven. He didn't seem as enthusiastic about the Gospel as the rest. He wished to shoo the little children away, along with the old, sick, and hurting, all the while Jesus saying, "Let them come to me." Judas had distanced himself even more over the past few weeks—everyone had noticed. He had begun questioning Jesus' ways and teachings. Not rarely, nor sometimes even out loud. Peter had seen it though. The looks Judas gave. The glares.

But Peter now seemed far worse in his sins and betraying act than Judas. Peter had been Jesus' close friend. Peter had been with Jesus day and night. Peter had walked on water, yet of course nearly drowned when he had had little faith. ("Oh, you of little faith. Why are you so afraid?") Jesus had given Peter the keys to Heaven. Jesus had even said, very sincerely, "And I say to you Peter, you are my rock. And on this rock I will build my church, and even the powers of Hell will not conquer it."

I am Jesus' Rock.

Was, anyway. Peter had begged Jesus for forgiveness for his betrayal. He'd shouted to the Heavens, hoping, somehow, that Jesus would forgive him. Hoping that maybe a voice would call out, "My Child, your sins are forgiven." But nothing came.

"Are my sins too grave that even you, Lord, can't forgive them?" Peter called out. He'd been crying so much, the words barely escaped his mouth but in a whisper. He was exhausted, yet he continued to speak. "I'm sorry. I know, Lord, that I am sinner. I knew that before, but…but I didn't realize it until now. How I truly am a selfish, ungrateful, sinner. " Peter could barely look up towards Heaven as he spoke. "I've betrayed you, my Lord, just like you said I would. I didn't believe you, yet somehow I knew you were right. And you were, of course. I beg you now, on my knees. Me, a poor sinner, who doesn't deserve your mercy, to forgive me of my sins. I don't expect you to appear in front of me. I don't expect you to look at me the same again. But I do ask you to please forgive me. I've sinned, and I can't live with this burden weighing on my soul. I need your help, Lord. Though I don't deserve your assistance, especially since I have betrayed you, but please—forgive me of my sins. I'm sincerely sorry."

At that final word, Peter felt prostrate over the ground. He wept tears once more. He wept until he couldn't weep anymore. When he finally composed himself, he waited. He waited in silence. He heard nothing—no birds, no wind, nothing. Yet he remained listening. He listened for the Lord.

And about when he was finally ready to believe that Jesus hadn't forgiven him, a slight breeze came out of nowhere and rustled his hair. He glanced up and looked out the window to his right. The tree there did not move at all—the leaves remained still. Yet somehow the wind was coming in the house. His hair blew in front of his eyes, and he slowly brushed it out of his sight.

As the wind slowly died down, he thought he could heard a sound. Barely audible, barely anything. But he heard something.

"My Child, your sins are forgiven."


	15. The Crowning of Thorns

People often wonder how, if Jesus knows everything, he can still be surprised, as I mention in this story. I say how he sees the thorns coming and sees every detail as the roman soldier comes walking up, but didn't he already know what it was? Yes, he does. Didn't he already know that Judas would betray him? Why did he cry? Why was he so sad if he already knew for thousands of years? He knew, but that doesn't stop the realization from happening. I may know I get a 100% on my Algebra test, but have to wait for it to be graded. When it is graded, and I do get 100%, am I not still happy? Not still smiling and joyful, even though I knew I would get an A+? Same with Jesus. He knows it's going to happen, but when it does, it still hurts him, saddens him, or brings him joy.

The Crowning of Thorns

Led to side of Pilate's palace, Jesus struggled with each step. He had slashes on his feet, and no one but him could imagine the pain he was feeling. It wasn't even his pain he should be enduring. Since the fall of Adam and Eve, even before then, Jesus knew he would be doing this. While he awaited his coming down from Heaven to be born of the virgin Mary, he knew the pain he would be going through. Thousands of years before it would happen, he saw the pain. He knew each beating he would endure, each bruise that would mark his body. He knew each and every slash that would cut and tear his flesh to pieces—even the weapon that would be used. He knew what was, and what was still to come.

And that frightened him. Truly and surely, it frightened him.

The Romans led him past the marble pillars, along the wall. The blood on Jesus' feet left a trail of footprints. He tried to curl up his body by tucking his shoulders inward, in hopes of his tunic not touching his severely injured skin, but that hardly helped. His rough, scratchy, bloody, clothing used to comfort him. His Mother, his Blessed Mother, had sewn that for him the day before he had left the house for his ministry. It been a gift, one would say. A simple, gift. But a gift he treasured. And he wore it now. But it brought no comfort this time—a time in which he desperately needed comfort.

In front of him, the six soldiers stopped. The drunkest one, whom Jesus knew before he was even born, gripped Jesus' shoulder and thrust him in marble chair. His tail bone crashed against the hard surface, but he remained mute to his complaints. Instead, he tried to curl up in a tight ball by dragging his legs as close to his chest as possible, without actually lifting them off the ground. That required too much energy.

Jesus shivered. His teeth chattered together. Not from the cold, but from the pain.

One of the shisha came over with a bucket of dirty mayim. Without hesitation, he tipped the bucket over and poured it on Jesus' head. Instead of sweet relief, the dirty water only infected his wounds more and slowed his blood flow, due to the coldness of the liquid. Jesus sat there, in a puddle of his own blood and water, as the soldiers began to mock him.

"How can you appear before the Pontious looking that way? You purify others, so you say, and now I have purified you. Behold this precious liquid, King! It is worth three hundred pence!"

Jesus nearly sobbed at the mocking. Not only did they mock him and proclaim the dirty water as a precious ointment worth three hundred pence, but they mocked his dear friend Mary of Magdala. Mary of Magdala had once washed his feet with her tears and dried them off with her hair, as well as anointing his head with oil worth a fortune. Now, the soldiers mocked the act and continued to scornfully tease him.

Then, one soldier came around the corner, carrying a brownish red, circular object. As he walked, fiddling with the item, he stopped in his tracks and shook his hand, as if he had somehow injured it. Irritated, he rushed over to Jesus. Jesus then saw what it was, not that he didn't know what it was before. A crown. A crown of thorns. Maybe ten or twenty thorns, still attached to their vines, wrapped around in a circle, the points sticking out at every possible angle.

Words of his Father came rushing back to him. "…thorns also and thistles shall the ground bring forth to thee…" Also, the image of his son Abraham finding the thorn in the thicket flashed through his mind. "…By its horns in the thicket…" was the ram caught. Jesus felt caught at that moment. Sure, he could freeze time and walk away without a scratch on him, but he needed to do this.

Jesus braced himself for the impact of pain that would come in the next few seconds. And the pain did come. The soldier pressed the crown of thorns upon Jesus' holy skull. He didn't even push down hard, but the pain was unbearable. The thorns dug into his skin. Then, to make matters even worse, a soldier marched over with a long stick. He pushed the stick against the crown of thorns and pushed with all his might. The soldier was strong, Jesus knew, for he was the one who had given him such strength. Each thorn dug very deeply into his skull. He almost became unconscious, and welcomed the thought of it, but his Father stopped his passing out and allowed him to endure the pain, which Jesus knew he must. Blood dripped down Jesus' forehead like droplets of sweat. It stung horribly when it trickled into his eyes.

"A crown for you, King! And here—a purple robe to show your royalty!" In haste, the soldiers stood Jesus up, took off his tunic, and thrust a large, heavy purple robe over his naked shoulders. Jesus' mouth open as if almost wishing to exclaim some sort of pain, but he stopped himself before any words could escape.

All shisha of the soldiers fell to their knees and began showing Jesus homage. They lowered their outstretched arms, then raised them in the air, then lowered them again, crying out, "Hail King of the Jews! Hail King of the Worms!"

Jesus cowered there in his seat, head throbbing beyond belief, scourging wounds bleeding profoundly once more. As he continued to endure the mockings, he slightly turned his head. When he did, a single, small tear fell down his cheek and dripped off his beard.


	16. Behold, the Man! (Ecce homo!)

Behold, the Man!

Pilate was unable to speak when he spotted Jesus for the first time after his scourgings. At least, he thought it was Jesus. He wasn't quite sure of the identity of the man before him. Beaten, bloodied, covered in a purple cloth, and crowned in thorns, it seemed as though this Jesus was being used as scourging practice, or an object of plain mockery.

Pilate fumed. He had asked the Roman soldiers to carefully monitor the scourging procedure. Obviously they had not monitored it, had they? Pilate should whip them…

Instead, he stomped over to where the guards where holding Jesus up by each grasping an arm. The man looked about ready to die. Either that or slip into unconsciousness. Which would probably be better, since then he wouldn't be able to endure the excruciating pain.

Slowly walking over to the man he assumed was not guilty of his crimes, Pilate paid care to not step on his bloody feet or trip over the heavy purple robe thrown over his shoulders. Fingers gingerly reaching out, Pilate touched Jesus' arm and looked him in the eye. Jesus looked up, and for the first time since this entire ordeal, Pilate saw something in Jesus' eyes, even though they were nearly swollen shut. He saw something more than kindness and unguiltiness. He saw understanding. He didn't see anger. He didn't see resentment. He saw understanding, as if this Jesus knew he had to do this. And for what reason? Pilate was no expert on knowing what others communicated through eye conversation, but he clearly see what Jesus said now. It was almost as if Jesus wanted Pilate to know what he was thinking. But why?

Motioning for Jesus to step forward towards the balchony wall, Pilate winced. He saw how much it hurt Jesus to take a single step—to even lift his foot up enough to shuffle along. Jesus didn't cry out, didn't beg for him to let him go. He just shuffled along as Pilate instructed.

Pilate swore. Why hadn't those soldiers listened to him when he said to watch them whip Jesus? He had wanted Jesus to simply be punished for whatever crime Caiphas is sure he commited, not scourged to death. Now it probably would have been better if Jesus had been scourged to death, then his pain would be gone. And so would Pilate's, since soon he had to look into the face of his wife Claudia and explain to her why this man was unrecognizable.

Looking out to the crowd, with Jesus by his side, Pilate wondered what to say. Really, he could say whatever he wanted. He was Pilate. The ruler. Not the crowd, not Caiphas and the rest of his Pharisee followers. Him. Pilate. But for some reason, only one sentence came to Pilate's mind at that moment. As the crowd waited unpatiently for him to speak, Pilate pointed at Jesus and shouted, "Ecce homo!"

All in the crowd responded by shouting hateful words. They had no mercy.

Then, without batting an eye, Caiphas called, "Crucify him!"

Pilate stumbled back instantly. He couldn't help it. Were they seeing what he was seeing? Were they seeing his unhuman-like creature standing next to him, too? A creature so unrecognizable, his mother probably wouldn't be able to know if it was him or not. A creature so scourged, fresh blood constantly dripped off the end of his nose and fingers, creating droplets of red on the ground, like rain. Not to mention the bloody footprints that were already stained into Pilate's bleached floors. And did they see the thorned crown that was impaled into his skull? Maybe the crowd failed to see that. Pilate had to make that clear to them the burtality of what this man had already endured.

"Do you see him?" Pilate shouted, angered. "Do you see this man by my side? He is soaked in blood. Has been scourged so much that he is beyond recognition. He wears a crown of large thorns—"

"Crucify him!" Caiphas called out, cutting off Pilate.

That did it.

"No! He will not be crucified!"

But his words were drown out as the entire crowd started to chant what Caiphas had started.

Frantic, Pilate leaned close to Jesus and, not taking his eye off the people, whispered, "Listen to me. I have power to crucify you or the power to release you."

Jesus lifted his head up. His eyes were nearly swollen shut, but he managed to lift his lids up enough so that Pilate could see his eyes. Then he said, so silently, "You do not have power unless it was given to you from above. I have the power to lay down my life and take it up again. You only have what the One has given you."

"Who is the One?"

Jesus only stared blankly at Pilate, as if he was supposed to know that himself. But Pilate didn't know. And right now, he didn't want to think about it. He had to calm this unruly crowd, not try to configure what this man was talking about. He was probably just delirious. Pilate never should have said anything, for it now jumbled his emotions even more.

The crowd began to riot again, much like they had when they wanted Jesus scourged. Well, they had wanted him crucifed then, not scourged. And Pilate had scourged Jesus, thinking this would settle their anger with him. But it didn't. And now they still wanted him crucified.

Pilate turned his head, and he just caught sight of his wife Claudia walking away, her skirts snaking around the corner of the palace. He gritted his teeth in anger. Pilate shouldn't be responsible for this man's death.

In one swift movement, Pilate summoned his servant with a snap of the fingers. The small bald man, dressed in a red tunic, hurried over, carefully trying not to spill the gold bowl he carried. Pilate addressed the crowd, then slowly lowered his fingers into the water. He made a great show of having the water flow over his hands, under his palms, and drip off the tips of his fingers. Then, he dried them off.

"Crucify him as you wish!" he finally shouted. He had to end this. He needed to end this. "But I will not be held accountable for this man's death. His blood shall not be upon me."

Without hesitation, the crowd proclaimed, "His blood be upon us and upon our children."

And with that, Pilate walked away from the balcony and into his palace, not once looking back into the eyes of the King of the Jews.


	17. Jesus Carries his Cross

And so Jesus begins the almost mile to carrying his cross...the heavy wood pressing deeply into his back.

Jesus Carries his Cross

The wood used to be rough. Coarse. Would give any person a splinter if they fingered it. But of course, his hands were too tough for splinters to dig their way into his skin. Especially with all the work he had been doing. 

Jesus gently moved his hand over the large beam. There used to be crevices and holes from insect infestation. Old nails used to be dug deep into the center and sides of the wood. 

But now there were none of those blemishes. No holes, no crevices, no nails. And no way it would give anyone a splinter. The wood was smooth. Like…a flowing river. Or a smooth as wine being poured into the awaiting chalice. 

"If this chalice shall pass from me, my Lord and Father…"

Jesus looked heavenward as he stumbled forward. He knew the answer to what his Father didn't yet tell him aloud, but he still had to ask.

There were two others along with Jesus that would be condemned to death by hanging from a tree. Both whom Jesus knew before they were born. Both whom's names were written on the palm of his hand. Both whom Jesus loved very dearly.

One of them, the more agitated, began cursing and swearing at Jesus while the Romans threw a large beam over his shoulders and tied his hands over it with ropes. Around his neck hung chains. On his skin, the visible parts, were large strips of purple and blue, where he had been whipped the day before Jesus. The criminal's eyes were cold as he cursed, "Haha! Jesus? King of the Jews? Why is a king being condemned! You are no king! You are a fool!"

The other criminal looked the same physically as the angry one, but his personality was quite the opposite. He remained mute and peaceful. He looked at Jesus with questions. Jesus wanted to answer those questions aloud, since he could read the man's heart, but he only looked at him with compassion and kindness.

Then Jesus turned his head towards his own cross thrown next to him. It was a complete cross, like a lowercase t. He glanced it over. There his hands would be nailed…there is feet would be nailed… The wood wasn't smooth. There were crevices and holes from insect infestation. His tender skin would more than likely be covered in splinters and blisters.

Yet he embraced his cross. He thanked his father profoundly for the wood that composed this cross and the hands that put it together.

But he didn't get to pray long, not even for strength, because a Roman soldier lifted up the cross and literally dropped it on Jesus' right shoulder, forcing Jesus to support the entire cross with the right side of his body.

"Get a move on!" someone called, and the pedestrians standing by jeered.

Jesus attempted to lift the cross on the ground, for he knew he had to start walking the almost mile to Golgotha. As soon as he tried, he knew he wouldn't be able to do it. Not with human strength at least, and he wouldn't at all use Godly advantage. He could, of course. But he wouldn't. That wouldn't be right. How could he save the sins of the entire world when he used such strength that could lift up that heavy cross with only a finger?

Just as he was pondering how he would carry this cross, and pleading to his Father for some sort of help, just so he could lift it, he heard singing. Glorious singing. He closed his eyes and felt the comfort of someone hugging him—and he knew it wasn't a Roman soldier. The hug was…warm and wonderful and glorious—as if his own Father had come down from Heaven and wrapped his arms around his Son. Jesus managed a small, just the tiniest, of smiles. Then, the cross slowly was lifted off his shoulders. The singing continued, as did the comforting hug. He opened his eyes and saw four angels, three of them assisting him in his quest to carry the cross.

The angels only helped him lift the wood and get started, then each one of them pressed their lips on his cheek and kissed him farewell.

Jesus nearly wept to see them go and, in place of them, the scowling Roman soldiers, whips in their hands.

The pain, again, for Jesus was nearly unbearable. No, it was unbearable. The heavy purple robe removed from him, Jesus could feel the cross digging into his shoulder, as well as his scourging wounds. Opposite of the other criminals, Jesus' wounds had not had a time to heal—they were raw and bleeding. His feet were swollen, as was his face. He could barely see out his eyes, and when he did, the dust from the crowd clouded his vision and irritated them even more. Every step he took shot new pain through his body—from the whippings, bruises, and beatings. Every step he took—every time he tried to shuffle along—he felt faint. He was feverish and sweaty. He hadn't eaten or drank since that Thursday evening. He'd lost so much blood, he felt light headed, especially with the blistering heat beating down on him and nearly boiling the blood that covered his forehead.

The two criminals remained behind Jesus, carrying half of the cross they would be nailed to. They were whipped as they walked just like Jesus was. The one remained mute while the other would not cease cursing.

"Avah marduwth!" Jesus would hear him say. "Damn you! Damn all of you! Damn Jesus of Nazareth! I swear it, you all will pay you, avah marduwth!"

Jesus tried to drown out his talking, for he was only wishing to concentrate on the quest ahead of him. But it was quite difficult to focus when the crowd jeered and shouted, spitting on his face and sometimes even kicking him. The soldiers continued to whip him though he was shuffling along. A general walked ahead on horseback, his red cape draped over the horse's rump. The red was the same color of wine…like the wine he had changed into his blood that Thursday. Like the blood that dripped from every part of him now.


	18. Jesus Falls for the First Time

Hey, guys! So, I found another person's point of view. Meet Jacobe (yes, Jacobe, not Jacob). I decided to introduce a simple man who is a Christian who sees Jesus carrying the cross. He needs Jesus' help, but who is he to ask Jesus for help, when it is Jesus who clearly needs the help?

Let me know how I did! God bless and REVIEW!

Jesus Falls for the First Time

Jacobe of Bethlehem came round the corner of his house, carrying a large vase of water. This was his woman's job, but she was ill with fever at the moment. Strictly ill, and Jacobe would gladly do her work if it meant she would be well. It was his fault, anyway. He wanted to move Margaret to Jerusalem—a new start. And besides, Jerusalem at Pontius Pilate, so surely this city would be safer than Bethlehem.

As he pumped the well near his house, he heard a commotion to his left. He lifted his head and squinted his eyes against the sunlight, trying to make out what the ruling crowd and fierce Roman soldiers were yelling at. A man it seemed. No, shloshah men. Two carried the arms parts of a cross, while the bearded man in front carried the entire cross which was, clearly, too heavy for him.

All three males were being led to death by crucifixion.

Jacobe shivered, not willing himself to think that maybe Jerusalem wasn't such a safe city, what with such an angry crowd and so many Roman soldiers, but then he reminded himself those three men were criminals and the city was safer without them. He then hurried back inside before the criminals could come near him. He set the vase down, dipped some water out with a cup, and rushed to his wife's bedside. Her delicate body lay crumbled on top of the bed, her face as white as a clean linen. Her brown hair, as long as her waist and usually so beautiful, was now stringy and haphazardly strewn about. She looked near death.

Jacobe knelt by her side and grasped her hand which was nearly stone cold. "Margaret, my love," he whispered. "Please… Get well. Ani ohevet otcha."

With much effort, his wife opened her eyes. Nearly a whisper, Margaret replied back, "Ani ohevet otcha…" Her eyes closed and her breathing quickened.

Then, she was gone. She didn't move, didn't say anything, didn't flinch as Jacobe tightened his grip on her hand, trying to control his anger. His body shook and eyes swelled with tears, but none fell. Abruptly, he came to stand and hurried out of his house, his feet stomping against the wood and the door slamming behind him.

He nearly tripped over the crowd standing directly in front of him.

"Watch it!" one man said before he returned to his yelling.

Jacobe took better detail of the crowd. Some were throwing rocks, others simply shouting insulting words. And then some…were crying, as he nearly did now. Were there loved ones being condemned to death on a cross? Would those weeping women have to watch as their husband or brother or father bled from the hands and feet and struggled to breathe?

Their pain seemed far worse than what Jacobe felt at that moment, and he found himself entranced as he eyed the bearded criminal—the one carrying the entire cross. He seemed familiar… But he couldn't be. Jacobe had just started living here in Jerusalem. He didn't know many people, and surely he wouldn't know such an evil criminal.

But then the criminal stumbled and fell, the great weight of his cross landing over his back and pressing the crown of thorns deeper into his head. His face remained shoved into the dirt. He didn't lift his head. Didn't move. Jacobe wondered if he were dead. Like Margaret.

Overcome by grief, Jacobe started to walk away, but found himself drawn back to the man on the ground. He had his head lifted now, eyes towards Jacobe. It almost seemed as if this man were looking directly at him. Jacobe studied his face, past the blood, wounds, dirt, thorns, and sweat. He saw kind eyes and caring features. He saw…Jesus the Christ. The Messiah. Jacobe had heard of the Messiah before. Actually, he had put his faith in him nearly two years ago when the Lord came to visit the city he had been in at that time for business. The Lord had put his hand on his shoulder and blessed him, promising him the hope of Heaven. Jacobe had gone home and shared his new faith with Margaret, and she had believed as well.

It was quite impossible to believe the Lord of lords was now too weak to lift his own cross. And why was he having a cross anyway? He deserved a throne.

"There is no greater love than laying down one's life for that of a friend's."

Those words came into Jacobe's brain as if the Lord had just placed them there himself. But why would Jesus have to lay down his life for Jacobe? No answer came to him, but a request did. He hated to ask. He really, really did. Who was he to ask the Lord of lords for such? He wanted to weep right along with those few compassionate ones over his Messiah, but he found himself so numb from his wife's death he couldn't even weep over his Messiah's.

His wife…

Lord, I don't know why the Romans are putting you through such pain. You are the Messiah, don't they know that? You have done nothing but help people your entire life, I know. I want to weep over you—for your pain and sorrow. But I am numb—from my wife's death and from seeing you so unrecognizable. Please forgive me for not weeping over you as those women are doing. Please forgive me for not running out into the street to stop this mutiny. Give me strength, Lord, to understand your will—why this is happening and why my wife has died.

Jacobe turned to go back inside, but words came to him. It was almost as if someone was whispering directly into his ear.

"I am doing this for you. For your sins and for the sins of the world. And your wife isn't dead. Go, see for yourself and be made strong by the strength of the Most High."

Jacobe looked at Jesus, who was standing now with the cross at his side. The Roman soldiers whipped him and the crowd yelled insults, but Jesus didn't move. He stood there, bloodied and weak, and looked directly into Jacobe's heart. Then he continued his quest before him—the quest to be hung on a cross.

Once Jesus was out of view, Jacobe hurried back inside his house and to his wife's bedside. He grabbed Margaret's hand and was surprised by how warm it was—not cold like it had been moments ago. He studied the rest of her and found himself in disbelief at the sight of her healthy skin tone and strong body form. Her hair wasn't stringy—it was beautiful now.

Then, as if death had spoken, Margaret whispered, "Jacobe?"


	19. Jesus Meets his Mother

Jesus Meets his Mother

Mary wanted to see her Son. She wanted to hold him, touch him…tell him everything was all right like she had when he was little and scraped his knee. She wanted to whisper words of encouragement in his ear, just to let him know that she was there, she was watching, and he would get threw this horrible trial. She'd seen him embrace his cross before he started carrying it—she'd read his lips as he mumbled words to his Father. To Mary's Father. Only she, her Son, and the Father really knew what was happening—why Jesus was going through all this pain. No one else did. And Mary only knew because the Father had told her so. Not a lot of information, just bits here and there. When Gabriel had told her she'd become pregnant with a Son, but not even be married. When her cousin Elizabeth had proclaimed her joy at seeing Mary carry the Lord of lords, and the salvation of the world that would become of him being born. When Jesus had been a child and he'd helped his foster father, Joseph, with his carpentry, and how Jesus had stared at the large nails Joseph owned and how two beams laid over each other made a cross. When Jesus was a teenager and he'd just happened to witnessed the crucifixion of a criminal—Mary had seen the way he watched the nailing from afar; the way he'd closed his eyes and winced at the sound of the nails being driven into the man's hands as he screamed in pain.

Yes, Mary had seen how this crucifixion was predicted long before it even began to happen. It should have been easy for her to cope with, to bear. For her Son, at least. But it wasn't. She wanted to run in front of the Roman soldiers and scream, "Lo! No, please stop this madness!" the way she'd whispered it to herself. She wanted to tear the whips out of the soldiers hands and demand that the crowd stop their ranting. Yes, Mary had her moments of when she felt like she could actually do these acts. But then she had her moments of sadness, when she had to sincerely accept the fact that her Son was being whipped, beaten, and was now covered in blood. She had to sit down, breathe, and come with the realization that her Son was carrying his deathbed, and that in a matter of hours, he would be dead. She had to actually realize that after today, she would have no one. No husband, no Son. She wouldn't hear the hammer of nails into wood as Jesus worked on his carpentry. Actually, the hammer of nails would probably frighten her after today…after what was still to come.

And for whom? The sins of the world. Everyone. Did Mary feel angry towards the Roman soldiers, the crowd, Pilate, even John and Mary? No. She felt love, and strangly enough, happiness. She hated the fact that her Son had to die this way, and she wished she was in his place, but she knew why it was to be. If her Son didn't suffer, who would go to Heaven? If her Son wasn't whipped, everyone would be condemned to Hell with Satan. If her Son wasn't forced to carry his own cross, her dear friends, John and Mary and Peter, wouldn't have the opportunity of living in Heaven after death. They would suffer in Hell forever and ever.

Yes, her Son did have to do this. For her friends; for everyone.

But Mary still wished he didn't.

And since she couldn't stop this madness, she needed to see him. Needed to be close to him. Needed him to know she was near.

"I want to see my Son," she told John.

John looked at her in disbelief, but she didn't care. She only nodded her head and pleaded with him to take her to her Son.

"All right. Come this way."

The three—Mary, Mary, and John—hurried past the crowd to the alleys. Hardly anybody was there, so it was easier to run. Mary's breathing quicked, for she wasn't young anymore, but she hurried to keep up.

"This way, Mother," John said as he darted past a pedestrian and through another alley.

Mary followed, her veil flowing behind her.

After three more alleys and a few more houses, John led the two Mary's to a certain area near the road Jesus would walk on. There was hardly any crowd, for Jesus wasn't here yet, but the sea of people began to build with each passing second. A Roman soldier passed on a horse, his red cape draped over the horse's rump. He kept his eyes forward.

John ran towards the front of the crowd, trying to clear the way, but as time went by, the rowdy crowd began to push and shove at John, not allowing him to get past and leave room for Mary, she saw. So she remained where she stood, about twenty feet away from the road, waiting and watching.

Then, she saw the tip of a cross. A man's head…a crown of thorns on top.

It was her Baby Boy, wrapped no longer in swaddling clothes, but in a bloodied tunic—the one she'd made for him. He looked…exhausted. He could barely pick up his feet to walk, and Mary was sure that when they did, they ached horribly. She could see the giant whip lashes on them, even past the red blood. Both arms were wrapped gingerly around one part of the cross. His hands, nearly black in color from so much abuse, shook uncontrollably as he struggled to grasp the wood.

Then, he stumbled. He didn't competely fall to the ground, but his knees gave out and the cross became even more heavy over his body.

In a split second, Mary was running through the alley towards him. She pushed past the rowdy men and weeping women, trying to reach her Baby Boy. One Roman soldier grabbed her by the arm and threw her backwards, but she managed to whisper a quick "Help me, Father," and push past the large man towards the one on the ground. She ignored all of her surroundings and only focused on her Son. She grabbed his tunic with both hands and pulled him slightly towards her.

"I'm right here!" she said. "I'm right here!"

Jesus turned his head towards his Mother. Seeing that he was in such pain that he couldn't say a word, Mary yelled out, "John!" John then came running past the guards and grabbed the cross of Jesus, groaning under the weight of the wood.

"It's all right, my Son," Mary cried. "I'm here. You're safe. I'm here."

Jesus looked at Mary, his eyes red and swollen. He managed to get himself to a slight stand and grab the cross from John with new profound strength and without saying a single word. Then, with one hand holding the cross against his body, he reached up and stroked Mary's cheek. With all the confidence one can possibly have in his situation, Jesus said, "Mother…see? I make all things new."

Before Mary could think of a reply, Jesus had turned his eyes towards the road before him. The cross wobbled, but his hands no longer shook and his arms tightly grasped the wood.

A tear slipped from Mary's eye, mixing with the blood on her cheek. She watched Jesus stumble along for as long as she could before two Roman soldiers grabbed each of her arms and threw her towards the alley. John rushed to her side, asking if she was all right, but before she could say a word, the two soldiers interupted her by pointing and shouting, saying, "The criminal's mother weeps for him! How sad! You should have raised a better son, my mother."

The other said, "Yes, then he wouldn't have been condemned to death by crucfixion."

"The worst it yet to come. Enjoy the show, Mother."

"Lekh mipo!" Mary of Magdala shouted, and the soldiers laughed at her, then walked away, the whips grasped in their hands.

Mary the Mother touched her cheek where Jesus had, closed her eyes, and tried to keep herself from weeping.


	20. Simon of Cyrene Helps Jesus

Simon of Cyrene Helps Jesus

The cross was getting heavier, he saw that. On top of his horse, Abrahm could see the difficulty the Nazarean was having with each step, not as if he wasn't have trouble minutes before. Or hours before.

Yes, he admitted, the Romans had been quite cruel with the Nazarean. Very cruel, if he had to say. But Abrahm was a Roman soldier, too, and he had no right to say how a criminal was or was not treated. He should encourage the beatings, not try to stop them.

But as he watched the bearded man shrug under the weight of his cross, he knew he wouldn't be able to make the almost mile to Golgotha. He'd probably die along the way, and wouldn't that cause a riot. Abrahm didn't want any riots. He just wanted to go home to his wife and daughter. They were expecting him for dinner, and he needed to be there on time. It wouldn't do to be late on his daughter's birthday.

Thinking quickly, Abrahm spotted a specific man out of the corner of his eye. He didn't really stand out, the man. He was just the first one Abrahm spotted. And the male scurrying past all the weeping women and shouting others, while him mute, did kind of make him a target.

"Hey, you!" Abrahm shouted, pulling his horse to a halt and pointing his finger at the man.

The man stopped, hestitantly, and just stood there, as if he was unsure whether to listen to the soldier atop a horse or flee. Abrahm most likely wouldn't be able to stop him if he ran through the crowd and through the alleys.

Luckily, the man turned.

"What's your name?"

He said, "Simon. Simon of Cyrene."

"Well, Simon, this criminal here"—he jestered towards the Nazarean, who was barely standing with the cross flung over his back—"can no longer carry his cross by himself. Help him."

"What?" Simon sounded sincerely baffled at Abrahm's request. "Me? No. Find someone else to help him. I want nothing to do with this criminal."

"I said help him!" Abrahm shouted. He got angry easily, and Abrahm was not about to be tested on his daughter's birthday. The man just needed to carry the cross so the criminal could be crucified, and he could go home.

"No!"

And with that, Abrahm snapped his fingers, signaling for another Roman soldier to come hold his horse. He hopped off, landing on the ground with a thump and then stalked over to this Simon who thought he was better than him.

As Abrahm towered over this small man, he glared. Simon cowered, the crowd ranting around them and that one annoying criminal of the three shouting out curses.

Within five seconds, Simon said, "All right!"

Satisfied, Abrahm turned on his heel and climbed back on his horse, ready to proceed, but Simon continued speaking.

"But listen! I am an innocent man, forced to carry a criminal's cross. I am not a criminal! I have committed no crime. Therefore, I shall only help this man and that is it."

Abrahm snorted, then clucked to his gelding and began trotting towards Golgotha, where those three criminals would finally be dead and he could go home.


	21. Seraphia Wipes the Face of Jesus

Hey everyone! Thanks for reading this far into my story. I hope you guys are liking it so far! This chapter is about Veronica (Seraphia) wiping the face of Jesus (read at the end of the chapter why I call Veronica Seraphia). I had a bit trouble with this chapter, but hopefully you guys enjoy and it tell me what you think!

OH MY GOSH GUYS I JUST FOUND SOMETHING IN THE BIBLE I DIDN'T KNOW WAS THERE AND NOW I'M HAPPY. Isaiah 52:14, "Even as many were amazed at him so marred was his look beyond that of man, and his appearance beyond that of mortals..." I mention a lot in my story how Jesus was unrecognizable, and here Isaiah mentions it! I LOVE the book of Isaiah. If you haven't read it, READ it. Especially Chapters 52 and 53. Those are ALLLLLLLL about Jesus. Love 'em. 

Seraphia (Veronica) Wipes the Face of Jesus

Seraphia* was prepared to see her Lord, as was her daughter. She had the veil in her hand—the same one she had placed on the ground the day Jesus had entered Jerusalem admist hallelujahs—while a glass of strong wine in the other.

The crowd was getting louder, giving the indication that the criminals were approaching. Well, two criminals and one innocent Lord.

"Come now," Seraphia said to her daughter and she handed her the cup of wine. "We must hurry."

The two females rushed out of their house and into the crowd. Seraphia instructed her daughter to stay close. She pushed her way through the crowd, trying desperatly to not lose the precious veil. It was of the assense that she reach Jesus.

She saw her chance. She hastily grabbed her daughters hand and pushed her way past the barbaric men and weeping women. She tripped, nearly releasing the veil onto the ground, but her daughter grabbed her elbow and maintained her mother's equilibrium. Her head glanced up and her eyes spotted her Lord.

She nearly fled. He was so…different. Unrecognizable. Carrying that cross, wearing a crown of thorns, and having been scourged, he honestly did look like a criminal that had committed a horrible crime. But Seraphia knew he had done nothing wrong.

Then, Jesus faltered. He fell forward, stumbling under his own feet, and landed crashing on his knees. The man helping Jesus stumbled, too, yet remained nearly standing. Jesus' hands, ripped to shreds, made contact with the ground with great force. His wrists bent backwards, the bones nearly snapping. The heavy cross followed him in the fall, an arm piece landing on his finger—make him silently scream—until the assistant pushed the cross away from Jesus and into the crowd. The Roman soldiers instantly started whipping the bystanders with rope, pushing them backwards and cursing at them.

Seraphia grabbed her daughter's hand and charged forward. She ducked under the blow of a whip, but someone else tripped her and she stumbled to the ground, the white veil cushioning her fall. Seraphia gasped and grabbed the veil off the dirty floor, only to find herself directly—only a few inches—near the face of her Lord. Her God. The King of kings and Lord of Lords. He was breathing heavily, his body heavy as he struggled to gain a breath—whether from the fall or all prior abuse towards him. His face was speckled with tears and scrapes, bruises and blood. His left eye was swollen shut, while the other was black and blue. Blood dripped off his nose and onto the ground. The thorns around his head also dripped blood. Precious blood that no one cared about.

Except Serephia.

"Allow me, my Lord." Serephia bowed her head as she handed the veil to Jesus, not even thinking if he would be able to grasp it.

But after a moment of looking at her, Jesus tentatively raised his hand up, and fingered the veil, red blood-prints immediately standing out against the starched cloth. He nodded, Seraphia saw, then pressed the veil up against his face, wiping the sweat and blood of very delicately.

He returned the veil to Seraphia, her not even caring that her precious veil, the one of most importance to her, was now covered in blood and sweat—ruined, as most all would say. But to her it wasn't ruined. It was perfect.

As was Jesus' face. She could see his features better now. His tan skin. The barely noticeable freckles sprinkled over his nose. His kind, blue-green eyes that stared into her soul. She could almost feel the love pouring into her heart. His love. For her.

"Bat sheli," Seraphia called, not turning around to see her daughter yet feeling her fingers cup around the wine glass. She offered it to Jesus. He stared at her, yet didn't accept the drink. Before Seraphia could say anything, a Roman soldier came running up near her and kicked the glass out of her hand. He whipped her on the back twice before she was able to configure what was going on. Grabbing her daughter's hand, Seraphia turned towards her house, veil in hand, and ran away without looking back.

Once inside, Seraphia had a great trouble breathing. She hurriedly looked over her daughter for injuries, yet found none. She wiped her face with her hand, grabbed her stomach, and tried to calm herself. Her back ached from the rope of that Roman soldier. It would be bruised by tomorrow.

And Jesus would be dead by tomorrow

At that moment, Seraphia realized what she had just done. She had hurried away from her Lord without saying farewell, without giving him words of encouragement, without even praising His Holy Name. She had hurried away like a coward, and then complained at the two wounds on her back, when she was sure Jesus would love to have only two wounds on him.

Seraphia fell to her knees, not even caring how badly it hurt as they hit the hard ground. She folded her hands in prayer as tears streamed down her face.

"Salach li, my Lord!" she cried. Her hands came to her face, then spread out before her as she reached for something to grasp in comfort.

She grasped her veil.

Still sobbing, Seraphia glanced up at the red-white cloth, only to see an image that startled her. Hurriedly, she outspread the veil to its entire length. The world stopped as Seraphia gazed into the face of her Lord. The veil, where Jesus had pressed his face into it, was now a beautiful picture Him. She could see every detail, every feature, and every wound Jesus had. But this time, it was more beautiful to look on. His eyes were fully open in this image, and they had the same kindness in them as when Seraphia saw in them moments ago. His hair was dry and no longer matted, yet the crown of thorns was still clearly visible.

This veil did not appear the same veil Jesus had wiped his face on. Where there should be blood and sweat stains and an unidentifiable image, there was instead the most beautiful, most painful portrait of Jesus Seraphia had ever and would ever lay eyes on.

Overcome with emotion and gratitude, Seraphia glanced to the Heavens and whispered, "Toda, Father." She then grasped the veil, hugged her daughter, and sobbed.

*Biblical studies have shown that Veronica's real name was Seraphia. The name Veronica was later given to her, composed from the words vera icon (true portrait) which is used to represent her brave conduct for that day. She was also the cousin of John the Baptist.


	22. Jesus Falls for the Second Time

Hey guys! I decided to have Simon's POV this time around. Also, in the Gospel of Luke, it states, "As the soldiers led him away, they seized Simon from Cyrene, who was on his way from the country, and put the cross on him and made him carry it BEHIND Jesus." See how Luke writes behind? We as disciples of God should follow behind Jesus. We should watch his examples and his actions towards others and strive to do the same. I have Simon behind Jesus for this part, but then when Jesus falls and is being beaten, I have Simon run in and stop the "madness", as I figure Simon would do. Then, I have Simon carry Jesus' cross and this time, stay BY Jesus. Not behind him. Simon was watching Jesus from a distance before-from behind him. But after he saw Jesus, saw how he was being beaten, and had observed him, he carried his cross BY Jesus. Personally with Jesus. He wasn't shy now to stay behind. He want to be with Jesus on his journey, as we should strive to have Jesus with us on our journey. Enjoy! Review! I struggled a bit with the ending words. I was unsure how they should go. I had what I wanted to say in mind, but couldn't get it right out in words...how'd I do?

Jesus Falls the Second Time

Simon was angry that he was forced to carry this criminal's cross. He had just arrived in Jerusalem after a long journey and this had to happen. It made no sense that he would have to carry the cross. Let the Romans help! Let this man carry the cross by himself! If he died along the way…well, then that would be three nails and a lot of trouble saved.

Not only that, but it was embarrassing to Simon. He didn't wish other people to see him as…as a criminal. He wasn't a criminal! He was a man—a passer-byer—who just happened to be plucked out of the crowd and forced to carry this cross that weighed as much as him.

He wished he didn't have to walk behind the Nazarene. He would have preferred to walk in front of him, that way he didn't have to stare at the wounds on his back, the thorns in his head, and the blood everywhere. But that wasn't an option. He couldn't just stop walking and switch places. He had to walk behind and look at the man's bloody crown. A crown of humiliation and of mocking. He had to gaze at the stripes upon his dirty tunic. He had to—

The criminal—Jesus, as Simon heard was his name—stumbled. His legs weakened beneath him and he fell on the ground, face smashing into the dirt and thorns digging deeper into his skull.

Simon's body immediately shifted downward as he struggled to grasp the cross. If he dropped it, it would land directly on the criminal. He groaned, using all of his strength to push the cross up and away from the bloody figure.

The Romans laughed as Simon's arms ached. He managed to lean the cross on its side against a large wall. He gasped for air and rubbed his back where the wood had dug into him. He didn't deserve this.

Simon then noticed Jesus lying on the ground, unable to stand. He almost appeared dead—not moving, not breathing. The Roman soldiers, white-knuckle gripping their ropes, whipped him continuously. The crowd jeered and hissed, shouting out rude comments and curse words.

Yet the criminal said nothing. He didn't moan, didn't move, didn't even try to stand. He seemed utterly and totally exhausted. The knotted ropes hammering into his back didn't help his situation.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Simon saw a bystander grab a rock. He threw it at Jesus' limp body. It cracked against his skull, sending a sickening echo throughout the area. Simon gritted his teeth and continued to watch the bullying. The soldiers were now kicking Jesus, laughing and calling out insults.

"Rise, King of the Jews! Rise!"

"Kneel! Kneel to your father! Pray for strength! Pray to live!"

Simon's breathing quickened as he continued to stare. His fingers curled in a fist each and every time a foot landed in Jesus' gut, a rock was thrown, or evil words were yelled.

Yet throughout all of it, the criminal did nothing. Jesus did nothing. That man—bloodied, beaten, and led away to die—did absolutely nothing. He took all of it. Simon watched in astoundment as the soldiers did not seize their kicking, nor the crowd their rock-throwing, nor their spitting.

Simon couldn't watch it anymore. As if a devil or a spirit had entered him, he charged past the bystanders, all the while yelling, "Lo! Lo!" He grabbed a whip out of a soldier's hand and threw it on the ground. He shoved another man away, screaming in his face to stop this madness. He stood near the Jesus man, protecting him from any more blows that were to come.

Breathing heavily, Simon shouted, loud enough for all to hear, "Stop this now! I don't care what you do to me. I don't care if you beat me or kill me along with this man, but leave him alone!"

The crowd was silenced. They stared at Simon, some weeping, some frowning, and some sneering at him. They seemed astounded, and they should be. Simon was astounded in himself.

One soldier grinned madly at him, then nodded. He took a swig of his water, then spit it on the ground next to him. "All right. You heard him. Let's go." As he walked past Simon, he whispered, barely audible, "Jew."

Simon gulped at that comment—for he was not a Jew—and hurried to help Jesus to his feet.

When Jesus was placed under his cross again, Simon decided to reposition himself. He hooked his left arm under the head of the cross, his right grasping the arm. Jesus did the same as him but on the opposite arm. Now, Jesus and Simon where side-by-side. Simon could look directly into that criminal's face. He could now see every wound, every blood and sweat droplet, and every bruise the man had endured. He could see every thorn hammered into his skull. He could see the dust and dirt particles stuck to his beard. He could see the exhaustion written all over him. Simon was literally now being forced to assist this man "personally." He was being forced to wrap his arm near Jesus' shoulder—due to the positioning of the cross—and almost stare into his face.

This would have bothered him minutes ago, but now for some odd reason, Simon didn't care.


	23. The Women of Jerusalem

The Women of Jerusalem

The light was so illuminating, it stung John's eyes. He wanted to look away, but felt so drawn to the image before him. The white of those clothes were...bleached clean. More than clean. They shone like the sun, yet they were white. John didn't understand how anything could be so…beautiful. There were no shadows. Nothing seemed to be going on around him. The whole world seemed to stop.

Then, Elijah and Moses appeared next to Jesus. John saw Jesus speaking with the two deceased men, yet John couldn't configure what they were talking about. He simply stared in awe, unable to say a word.

But Peter found his tongue quickly. He said, "Lord, it is good for us to be here. If you wish, I will put up three shelters—one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah."

John only partly paid attention to Peter. He was so transfixed on the Son of God before him. Jesus appeared so…happy. He appeared at home. His clothes shone like nothing John had ever seen.

Suddenly, a bright cloud enveloped John, Peter, and James. The hazy white covered John so much that he couldn't see anyone else except Jesus. Yet he didn't feel afraid; that is, until a loud voice came from the heavens, proclaiming, "This is my beloved Son with whom I am well pleased. Listen to him!"

Terrified, John fell to the ground, closing his eyes and covering his ears. He'd never heard anything like that before. He'd never seen anything like that before. And now it scared him.

Someone touched his shoulder in a brotherly manner. Gingerly, John glanced up, surprised to see that the cloud was no longer surrounding him, Elijah and Moses were gone, and Jesus' clothes were a light shade of brown now. Jesus smiled. "Get up," he said. "Do not be afraid." 

John startled out of his dream. He glanced around to find Mary of Magdala weeping on the ground, while Mary the Mother stood silently next to her. She looked near death. John turned to his right, only to see a vacant road. No crowd, no soldiers, and no Jesus. Where was he? How long had it been since Mary had seen her Son? Seen he'd seen his Lord?

Walking quickly to Mary, he hugged her, then said, "Mother, miyad ekhzor. Stay here."

Without questioning him, Mary nodded. John glanced at her one last time before he hurried off. He hated leaving the two women alone, but he'd be back. He had to see Jesus, whether from a distance or close up. He had to see him without the two Mary's. He just needed to see Jesus by himself. He had to see him in order to try and picture that Glorious Lord he had seen a few weeks before. He had to try and picture bleached white clothes, a friendly smile, and a compassionate voice.

He had to.

John darted in the streets. Past houses, past children, past animals, past Roman soldiers. He ran as fast as he could, his tunic flying behind him. An image flashed in his mind at that moment. Him running away when Jesus was taken prisoner by the soldiers. Peter had stood up and fought, but what had John done? He'd run away, not looking back at his Lord. Not saying a single word. Had it really only been less than twelve hours ago?

Determined, John reached the crowd. He pushed his way through, which was not easy. Men threw their fists in the air, armed with rocks and sticks and angry words. Some women were the same, their facial expressions beaming with hate. Yet John saw some women up ahead, far up there, who were not shouting. They were not throwing rocks or sticks. Instead they were weeping.

John ran out of the crowd and through the streets. He managed to brush past a Roman soldier in order to reach a rocky hill. Scurrying atop the rock, John was able to see the road to Calvary much better now. He was just high enough to see a large number of people, yet low enough to still see their faces. After a moment of scanning the crowd, John saw Jesus. He saw the giant cross. He saw the redness of his garments. He saw the Roman soldiers whipping him. He saw the stripes on his back. He saw the thorns pressed into his head. And he saw the pained expression upon his face. There was no illuminating white clothes. There was no smile. There was no compassionate words coming from his mouth. Just blood-red clothes, a grimace, and groans of pain.

John believed Jesus was Lord with all of his heart, mind, and soul. Yet, why didn't he lessen his pain some? Why didn't he prevent the Roman soldiers from whipping him? Why didn't he stop the crucifixion in general? Why endure all of this?

John watched in deep sadness as Jesus approached the weeping women. They wailed loudly, calling out.

"Stop this madness!"  
"My Lord, my Savior! Forgive my sins!"  
Jesus' pace slowed and he changed direction slightly in order to walk near them. He remained holding the cross, yet barely. His head hung low, his body sinking. John could see the sweat and blood dripping from his nose, his chin, his brow. Then, to John's surprise, Jesus began to speak. Amid the chaos, John could still hear the words.

"Daughters of Jerusalem," Jesus spit out, the words blurred together, "do not weep for me; weep for yourselves and for your children. For one day there will be a time when you will say, 'Blessed are the childless women, the wombs that never bore and the breasts that never nursed!' Then 'they will say to the mountains, "Fall on us!" and to the hills, "Cover us!"' For if people do these things when the tree is green, what will happen when it is dry?"

And with that, Jesus continued on his journey, dragging the cross behind him.

John remained dumbfounded at his words. Jesus had hardly said anything throughout this entire ordeal, yet he said so many sentences to the weeping women? Out of all the people to speak to—Peter, John, even his Mother—he spoke the most to the weeping women—the women that wailed uncontrollably and showed him the most compassion (not that his Mother didn't show sadness, she just tried not to show it for her Son's sake). What did Jesus mean?

It almost seemed as though he was saying there would be worse times. It was as if he saying the events happening now aren't so bad ones. But later on, the tree will die, and somehow everything will be worse? How can anything be more horrible than now?

A tear slipped down John's cheek, mixing in his beard. He swiped it away as he watched his Lord—not in illuminating clothes, not smiling, and not whispering friendly words—hobble down the road. He watched him go, confused, worried, and saddened.

Turning away, John began to climb down the rocky hill in order to return to the Blessed Mother. He couldn't escape the burning feeling inside of him of fear, though. If his Lord and Savior could be crucified by the Romans, what would stop them from doing the same to him? To the Mother? To Mary of Magdala? John became overcome with anxiety. He rubbing his fingers together and sat down, his back leaning up against a house. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and took a breath.

Before he could think of anything encouraging to say to himself, a still, small voice said whispered these words:

"Get up. Do not be afraid."


	24. Jesus Falls for the Third Time

Wassup dudes and duddettes? Thanks for reading this far into my story. This time, Jesus has fallen for the 3rd and final time. I struggled with making this fall different than the last two, so I decided to add some more thoughts of Jesus into there. How'd I do? Please review and give me suggestions! I'd appreciate it!

Jesus Falls for the Third Time

It was past eleven o'clock, Jesus assumed. The sun was beating down upon his face and his back. He could almost feel the blood boil upon his skin. His arms ached, as his did his back, legs, bones, face, neck—his everything. 

Jesus was completely drained. Literally and totally. When a Roman soldier's whip smacked his back with great force, his knees gave out and he lost his equilibrium. He could feel himself falling…swinging backwards onto his back. His helper, Simon, was grasping his hand tightly, trying to keep him to a stand and from crashing to the ground, but Jesus was already there. Dirt and rocks pushed into his skull, as did the thorns. His left arm remained pinned behind his back, causing great pain. He cried out, but no sound escaped his lips. His teeth greeted together, and he could taste blood.

Jesus barely noticed that the soldiers had stopped moving, as did Simon and the two other executioners. He simply remained lying on his back on the ground, his deathbed hanging over him, a giant shadow of darkness enveloping him.

He was exhausted. He couldn't move, though he tried. He honestly couldn't do anything but lay there, and even that hurt him. He closed his eyes, forcing himself not to cry, and begged his Father, "Abba, bevakasha." It even hurt him to think. He wanted to scream—to cry and to wail and plead for his Father's help—but he could only managed a simple prayer: "I am completely drained of all my strength. Please, help me stand. Help me continue…on my journey. I can't give up. The souls of my Children are counting on me. I have to do this…for them. Father, please… I can't just lay here and…die. I can't. I…can't have my journey end here. I must…fulfill it. Please…let me finish this. I must drink the chalice you have set before me. I must do this for my Children. Please, Abba."

Though he could hardly see anything, he saw a flicker of white in the left portion of the sky. He fluttered for a moment, then flew closer to Jesus so he could see it better. A dove. He watched as the birth remained hovering in the air. Then, after a moment, it flew off.

Overcome with love from his Father, Jesus struggled to regain a stand. He grasped Simon's outstretched hand and pushed himself off the ground—which was quite difficult. He quieted all of the chanting men and women surrounding him and only focused on his life's goal—completing this mission in order to save the souls of those he had created, those whose names were etched in his palm, and those he loved with everything in his being…and then some.

Regaining himself, he wobbled to a stand and gingerly wrapped his right arm around the cross. He literally just hung there. He knew he wasn't contributing that much to carrying his cross—but he just couldn't. He had the weight of all the sins of the entire world pressed upon his back. He had every murder, every rape, every theft, every lie, every jealous thought, and every curse word pressing his body down lower and lower with every step. He glanced lovingly at the soldiers and the angry pedestrians, realizing the great weight simply they put on him. The unjust beatings…the name-calling…the anger and jealousy….

As he began to drag his body along the little bit farther, Jesus felt his face sadden even more with each sin they committed.

How he wept for the blackened souls he was giving his life to save.


	25. Jesus is Crucified

I nearly wept while writing this, guys :'( It's so sad. I could feel Mary's pain. Both Mary's. He went through so much for me...and for YOU. And what have we done to deserve that suffering? We've sinned. Over and over again, we've sinned. 

loreen...thank you for reviewing! I'm glad you have been touched by my story. And, at your request, I have done a Mary of Magdala POV. The first little bit of this section is of Mary the Mother's, but after that it's Mary of Magdala's. How'd I do?

Jesus is Crucified

Mary was beside herself with worry. She was exhausted from hardly any sleep and weak from eating nearly nothing. She and her husband, Joseph, hobbled along Jerusalem, looking around, calling out, and praying.

Was it God's will for this to happen? Or was it just some sort of accident and Mary's fault? Or Joseph's fault? Mary had stopped arguing over who hadn't been watching Jesus. It didn't matter. What mattered was finding him. It'd was the third day. Where could he be? Mary had thought….she had just figured he was with her relatives and friends. Talking with Mary's mother or playing with Mary's cousins. But after a day was over, Mary came to realize he wasn't among them.

Joseph and Mary had returned to Jerusalem that night, frantically calling out Jesus' name, but he never answered. He never came running up to them, saying, "Mother! Father! I'm here! I'm here!" He was twelve, Mary knew, and old enough to care for himself, but she was still her Son. And God's Son.

Wiping the tears away from her eyes for the thousandth time, Mary turned to Joseph. Instead of scanning the crowd for their son, he was watching the teachers in the temple courts. They were conversing with one another about something, yet Mary was out of ear shot to hear what it was.

Mary, puzzled, watched as Joseph released her and hurried over to the temple. Mary followed, only to stop in her tracks when she saw the sight before her.

Jesus. Her Son—her dear, dear, boy—was in the middle of the temple, a huge smile on his face. He was speaking to the teachers, who were listening to him with great interesting. One after another they asked him questions about God and the Messiah, and Jesus answered each one with confidence.

When he spotted his Mother, Mary, he came running over to her and hugged her. Too astounded to yell at him, Mary choked out, "Son, why have you treated us like this? Your father and I have been anxiously searching for you."

Instead of apologizing, Jesus cocked his head at them, furrowed his brow, and asked, "Why were you searching for me? Didn't you know I had to be in my Father's house, Mother? Mother?"

Mary stumbled as she hurried up Golgotha—Place of the Skull. Her knees scraped against the giant rocks violently, yet her garments cushioned her fall some. John helped her stand, yet she pushed him off and continued her quest of where her Baby Boy would be killed by crucifixion.

Breathing heavily, she darted over to a vacant spot of the mountain, free of soldiers. She barely noticed John and Mary of Magdala come stand near her—that is, until Mary grasped her hand and John wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

Mary the Mother only had a moment to prepare herself before she spotted her dear child…her dear, perfect, child. God in the flesh. She tried to picture that beautiful young man who had, only twenty-one short years ago, been speaking in the temple to numerous great teachers. He'd been so full of life and happy to speak of his Father's—God's—work. Mary hadn't been angry that day. Confused, yes. But angry? How could she be? He'd asked, so innocently, why she had been searching. And why had she? Mary should have known that God would take care of their Son.

And Mary sure hoped he would care for their Son now, for he looked as if he was dead—dead and walking. He wasn't carrying his cross anymore, and his assistant had reluctantly left Jesus' side, only to hide away in the crowd and watch. Jesus' skin was so pale…yet so red. And glossy from the sweat. There wasn't an inch on him that hadn't been bruised or butchered. Every whip mark from the scourging earlier that day—when the soldiers had used glass shards and sticks composed of thorns—was composed of peeling skin, blood, and tissue. His once clear, smooth, and tan skin now looked like a piece of butchered meat.

She caught herself before she sobbed.

Nothing could calm Mary of Magdala. She felt dead inside and out. She could hardly see out of her eyes due to her excessive crying and the puffy-eye side effect. She shook uncontrollably. Every minute a new tear trailed down her cheek. She didn't even bother to wipe it away.

She just couldn't believe it. She just couldn't believe this was happening. How long ago had Jesus cured her? Cured her of her horrid…ailment? Mary shivered once more. She just couldn't imagine what would have become of her if she had never found Jesus—or Jesus found her. She didn't even remember much about that day, nor the days before that. It had been her, Susanna, and Joanna. Susanna and Joanna also had had a few demons cast out of them, but Mary had had seven. A symbol of completeness, she knew. Sometimes she did remember her being possessed. It was only a couple years ago, but it seemed like yesterday. Mostly she wasn't even sane—at least, she had been told so. But sometimes…she could feel the demons inside of her. She could hear them whispering to her that she was worthless. Her life was not worth living. God was a devil. She needed to murder him. And sometimes—most times—she agreed with them. She did find her life pointless. She wanted to commit suicide almost every minute she was sane (if she could call it that). She injured herself. Cut herself with weapons, ate nothing, and threw up green bile. She hated herself, as the demons inside of her told her she should. If she looked in a mirror—which she rarely did—all she could see were dark, hollow eyes and a sunken face. Skin as pale as milk. Her appearance was nothing then compared to what it was years before when she lived in her castle. Her name, "Magdala" meant "castle," since she grew up in one about three miles from Capernaum. She was gorgeous then. Colorful dresses, dangle earrings, long, dark hair. But when she was possessed? A jezebel demon in the flesh.

As her neighbors told her after she was healed, she did crazy things. She cursed and hollered, ripping out her hair and contemplating suicide. Not contemplating, honestly planning to kill herself. And maybe not even suicide…maybe the demons were trying to murder her.

That one day Jesus came into her city, she was dragged by the demons into the town to see him. Passer-byers later told her how she had reacted when Jesus walked by her. She, apparently, hissed and growled at him, foam coming out of her mouth. She had shouted, "Son of David! King of the Demons! I beg you, don't kill me! Stay clear of me!"

Mary of Magdala didn't remember the demons coming out of her. She didn't remember Jesus looking at her with love and compassion while she cursed at him. She only remember herself being free. No demons, no suicidal thoughts, no hollow eyes, and no sunken skin. She felt…alive. She felt loved. Adored. She had never felt that way ever. Not when she lived in Magdala in her castle—not ever. Not by her now deceased family. By no one. She was totally alone in the world, and the seven demons had invaded her body and her soul and tortured her.

Yet one day changed all that. One man did. One God. Her God, Jesus Christ. By only saying a word…he had given her an entire new life, and she would be eternally grateful.

He had hugged her afterwords, as well as hugging Joanna and Susanna. He'd whispered, "I love you, bat sheli" into her ear. She would never forget that moment. The moment when he smiled down at her, love and adoration in his eyes. Never had the demons bothered her again. Never had she injured herself, thrown up, or contemplated suicide. She simply followed her Lord. She was with him his entire rest of his ministry—from that day to this day. She was with him. Listening to him, assisting him, praying to him, and simply loving him. Never could she express her gratitude towards him. Not that day, not now.

Especially not now, when her dear Lord, the one who had given her a life worth living, was being shoved on a tree to die. New profound tears came flowing down her cheeks and dripping on the ground. She released Mary the Mother's hand and covered her face in distress. She'd lost her veil long ago, so her dark brown hair flew behind her, whipping her in the face and becoming tangled.

Peeking through her fingers, Mary watched the scene unfold before her like some awful nightmare—and she'd endured enough of those to last a lifetime. Jesus was standing now. Barely standing. Some Roman soldiers hurried over to Jesus with great joy and ripped off his garments. He stood there on the mountain clothed in nothing but a simply linen and the scapular around his neck. He was naked from his feet to his thighs and from his stomach to his head. And he looked pitiful. Nothing like the smiling Lord she had first met years ago that had cured her. Nothing like the joyful Lord who had bounced the little children upon his knee and whispered them stories of Heaven and how God loved them. Nothing like the Lord who had cured the blind man and given hearing to the deaf man. That deaf man was so happy to finally hear the sweet voice of his God and Savior, he'd nearly hugged Jesus for an hour. But now Mary of Magdala feared any form of physical affection would harm Jesus more than give him a reason to keep going. Mary knew why he had to do this—for her. For John and Peter and everyone else in this world. She'd listened to Jesus enough to understand.

But that didn't make the pain in her heart any less worse.

Mary watched as Jesus crawled on the stones towards his deathbed. His back arched downward, his head hung low. Blood dripped off his nose as he slowly made his way to the cross. The scapular around his neck dangled in the air, swinging back and forth.

Apparently Jesus was not moving fast enough for the soldiers, for one of them kicked him from behind, sending him forward so that he banged his chin on a rock, causing a new wound over an old one. Groaning, Jesus continued his quest as he tried best he could to lay himself on the cross. He managed to turn himself over, and lay flat somewhat, but he couldn't do any more than that. Laughing, one soldier grabbed his legs and threw them to the side so that the heels crashed into the foot of the cross. He then yanked Jesus' left arm onto the certain part of the cross. The soldier then tied a rope around Jesus' arm and that portion of the cross, knotting it at the end. Jesus didn't resist, and Mary wept because of that. He was doing this willingly.

Then the moment arrived. Mary watched in utter horror as a giant nail, one longer than a man's hand and thicker than a man's thumb, was pressed against Jesus' hand. The soldier grasping the nail chuckled and said, "Prepare for pain, King of the Worms." Then, hammer in hand, he raised it above his head. Mary watched in complete distress as she saw Jesus turn his head and look towards the nail placed upon his palm. He then glanced up towards the sneering soldier, whispered words, and braced himself for the pain to come.

An evil smile on his face, the soldier brought the hammer down and hit the nail straight on. Jesus cried out as blood immediately began gushing forth and spattered the soldier doing the work. Laughing, the Roman continued to hammer the nail through the precious palm of Mary's Lord and Savior. She watched as he gritted his teeth against the pain, blood sliding down his mouth as he no doubt bit his tongue to resist screaming.

"Lo, lo, lo," was all Mary could say as she sunk to the ground, her knees hitting the rocks unevenly and unbalancing her. She managed to remain on her knees as she watched in silence. Jesus' fingers curled in pain around the nail, blood still sputtering the surrounding area.

Two out of nine of the Roman soldiers were already moving onto Jesus' left hand. They fastened another rope to his arm and prepared to nail, yet realized his palm didn't reach the assigned hole. They then tied another rope around Jesus' wrist and stood back. One soldier grabbed the rope out of the hands of another, claiming he wished to do it. Snarling, he pushed his feet up against the cross and yanked Jesus' arm. The soldier's face curled in determination as he continued to pull on the arm so that it hovered over the open hole. Mary watched Jesus breathe heavily, his chest heaving. His legs contracted together and his other palm no doubt was being slightly ripped away from the hammered nail.

A sickening sound was made as Jesus' shoulder was dislocated. Mary caught herself before she irrupted in another round of sobbing.

"Nail it!" the soldier cried. "Nail it now!" Hurriedly, one man pressed the metal into Jesus' dear hand. The hand he had never hurt anyone with. The hand he had cured the blind, deaf, and mute with. The hand he had caressed Mary's cheek with when she had been free of her demons.

Raising the hammer high, the soldier brought it down in one swift movement. Blood spattered the one Roman in the face, and he stopped mid-swing in order to laugh and wipe it away. He then continued to bring the instrument down—one, two, three…six times. Jesus banged his head up against the cross to cease from screaming. His teeth, red with blood, remained clenched even after the final swing was made.

Then came his feet. His blessed feet Mary had anointed with oil, cried on, and dried them with her hair. The feet he had walked many miles on to preach news of God's grace and salvation.

A board had already been nailed to that certain portion of the cross, so Jesus would be forced to "stand" on this wood with nails in his feet. Mary knew why they put that wood there—to prolong the criminal's agony. Her Lord's agony. If that platform wasn't there, Jesus would die much more quickly due to either his feet bones breaking, him suffocating, or the nails being ripped out of his feet when the cross was lifted to a vertical. Jesus would be forced to remain alive for much longer…

Anguished, Mary watched as Jesus' feet were placed on top of each other—left above the right. Hammer in hand, a soldier fiercely grabbed a nail and placed it over his feet. Mary closed her eyes, unable to bear the sight. Tears fell down her cheeks as she waited for the sound of hammer striking nail.

It came, and she began sobbing. She didn't open her eyes until she heard these certain words coming from her Lord:

"Abba! Abba!"

Glancing up through her fingers, Mary saw the soldiers continuing to hammer the nail through the bones. Jesus was in indescribable pain as he forced the words out of his mouth.

"Abba! Abba, forgive your children. They don't know what they are doing…"

Instead of praying for himself, or asking his Father to lessen his great pain, he prayed for the souls of others. He prayed that even though were condemning him to death, they would not be condemned to Hell.

After Jesus was nailed, a servant of Pilate's came running over to one soldier and handed him a piece of metal. The soldier looked at the metal piece in disgust, then nailed it above Jesus head, the vibration from the nail causing Jesus much more pain.

Unable to watch yet unable to take her eyes off the scene, Mary of Magdala watched as ropes were looped through circular chains near Jesus' bloodied hands. Some soldiers grasped the ropes while some others stood behind the cross, heaving it upward. The ropes tightened as the soldiers slowly stepped backwards, trying desperately to lift the cross higher.

Bit by bit, Jesus was raised. The cross shook back and forth, as did the Lord nailed to it. The soldiers shouted to one another:

"Put your back into it!"

"Higher! Higher!"

"Lift it up, you idiots!"

Jesus mouth opened in pain, yet he didn't cry out. As Jesus rose, Mary rose. She slowly came to a stand as the cross reached the sky. When it was completely vertical, it slid into the awaiting hole with great force, sending Jesus' body ricocheting forward.

Jesus was crucified.

Before she began sobbing, Mary surveyed her dear Lord one final time. She watched as he struggled to breathe. She watched as his fingers curled in pain. She watched as he tried not to bang his head against the cross—due to the crown of thorns—but tried not to hang his head due to the neck pain. She watched as his toes dripped blood onto the ground. Every part of him was bleeding and butchered.

Then, above Jesus' sacred head, was the metal sign. Written in three languages, it read:

"This is the King of the Jews."

While the Romans mocked that title, Mary wept because of that and because he wasn't King of the Jews. He was her King. King overall. King of Heaven and Earth.

And he was nailed to a tree, dying.


	26. Agony on the Cross

Hey, guys! The story is almost finished! Just a few more chapters...

I just wanted to share a little tid-bit of information with you guys. In the Bible, it says that after Jesus did the institution of the Eucharist, they sang a hymn and went to the Mount of Olives. Back then, people would say they screwed up the Passover! They are supposed to have had 4 different times where they drank wine 4 times. At the Last Supper, Jesus instituted 2 of the cups before the Eucharist, and the 3rd cup was when the wine was turned into his blood and he said, "Do this in remembrance of me." Then they would typically sing a hymn, and the 4th chalice would be instituted. But that never happened! NEVER this that mentioned in the Bible. Some would say Jesus messed up the Passover! But recall in the Agony of the Garden, Jesus says, "If it your will, let this CHALICE pass from me..." The 4th missing cup! This cup is called the "cup of consummation." Recall now, that when Jesus was on the cross dying, he said, "I thirst." Then, wine and vinegar was given to him. WINE WAS GIVEN TO HIM AS HE WAS DYING. The 4th cup! Shortly after that, Jesus said, "It is finished." Jesus had drunk the cup of consummation, the one he would not drink until his mission was accomplished, and now it was.

I find that SUPER interesting, and just wanted to share that with you guys. 

Agony on the Cross

Caiphas stared up at that blaspheming criminal in disgust. There he was. Almost dead. Finally. Caiphas still couldn’t believe it. Was that Jesus really hanging from a tree? He nearly laughed. All those years of preaching and proclaiming and blaspheming, and the Nazarene was finally going to die. Honestly, Caiphas figured something would have happened to prevent this crucifixion from happening. Maybe Pontius Pilate would change his mind, or Herod would insist on letting Jesus go. But none of that had happened. 

Thankfully.

Caiphas almost wanted to smile, yet he didn’t. Instead, he climb off his donkey and landed on the stony ground. He slowly began approaching the cross which Jesus hung from. He didn’t dare get any closer than a few feet, less he become unclean by the blood of a criminal.

Scoffing, Caiphas shook his head and shouted loud enough for all to hear, “Aha! You said you would destroy the temple, and in three days”—Caiphas emphasized the word three—“build it back up. Yet you cannot come down from your cross…”

The Romans surrounding Jesus laughed and pointed, and Caiphas couldn’t help but feel proud for his handiwork. He continued, “Save yourself! Come down from your cross!”

One of the Pharisees behind Caiphas shouted, “He saved others, yet he cannot save himself!”

Another said, “Let the Messiah, the King of Israel, come down from the cross now. Then, we can see and believe.”

Caiphas grinned, then turned away, staff in hand. He heard someone speaking behind him, and he honestly thought it was Jesus, but when he turned, Jesus was mute, as if he hadn’t said anything. To his right, he caught sight of one out of many of the weeping women. Her eyes were puffy from tears, yet she didn’t shout or curse at Caiphas, which she was wise to not do. Instead, she simply stared at him.

Caiphas turned away.

It was hardly fair that he cry. Really, it wasn’t right for him to do so. Jesus—his best friend and Lord—was going through all of the pain, while John was just watching. Yet he needed to cry. He desperately needed to cry. 

A tear slid down his cheek, and he quickly wiped it away so Mary the Mother would not see him. It was her Son hanging on the cross, yet she wasn’t crying anymore. Mary of Magdala was though. Prostrate on the ground, deeply wailing.

Jesus was hanging lower now. His legs were bent at an odd angle. His back was pressed up against the coarse wood. He struggled to breathe, and John knew why. Each and every breath Jesus had to take—just to stay alive two seconds longer—required him to push up on his nailed feet in order for his body to straighten, which allowed him to then take in a breath. Yet as soon as he sunk back down, he needed to stand on his nailed feet and inhale again.

John wondered why he didn’t just die. Wasn’t his assignment finished? Hadn’t he endured enough? How could there still be more to be done? Why should Jesus just hang there and suffer bitter pain? 

The criminal on the right of Jesus, the one who was obviously angry and harsh, began cursing and shouting. He cursed Jesus, the Pharisees, the Romans, and those watching and weeping. He shouted that he wished he could murder them all—and would have, too, if he wasn’t hanging from the cross. He said how he hated life and wanted to die. 

“Just kill me now!”

The other man, on the left of Jesus, began shouting back. “Have you no fear of God, for you are subject to the same condemnation?”

John was taken-aback by this statement. 

He continued, “Gestas, we are deserving of this punishment. We have sinned. We have committed our crimes. We deserve this! But this man”—he turned his head ever so slightly to Jesus—“has done no wrong. Jesus, I ask only that you remember me when you enter your kingdom.”

John watched in awe and sadness. He thought Jesus wouldn’t answer the criminal, for he was far too weak. In order for him speak he would have to stand yet again on his nailed feet…pushing up on them with the little strength he had.

But Jesus did speak. He stood on his feet, his legs unbending slightly. Head tilted backwards, Jesus spoke.

“Amen…I say to you, this same day you…will be with me…in paradise.” 

That one criminal stared at Jesus without saying a single word. He nodded his head slightly, then closed his eyes as his breathing became labored.

The other criminal—Gestas, as John realized he was called—laughed out loud. He himself stood up on his feet and said, spitefully, “Avah marduwth, Dismas! You can burn in the fires of Hell like your Jesus will soon enough. Burn right along with Satan! I don’t care! Everyone on Earth will burn!”

John winced at his harsh words and tried desperately to block them out by closing his eyes.

In a few seconds, he heard wailing and screaming, and when he opened them, he saw crows and other birds swarming at Gestas, landing on his arms and picking at his skin. Gestas screamed and cursed, yet he couldn’t move do to his current situation. One Roman soldier grabbed a spear and tried to shoo the crows away, yet they didn’t leave until they had eaten much of Gestas’ left fingers. 

John turned away, not able to look at the criminals nor his Lord.

One hour had passed, Jesus knew, but it seemed far longer than that. It seemed like an eternity—and he knew what an eternity felt like. Every few seconds he struggled to breathe, and every few seconds he had to force himself to push on his nailed feet in order to survive that much longer. It wasn’t time for him to die. He wasn’t ready to die. He would welcome death, though. He would be in Heaven—with his Father and the souls who would finally be allowed out of Limbo. He would be able to open the golden Gates of Heaven.

But his time on Earth was not yet finished. He had not yet drunken the chalice set before him, and wouldn’t be able to for another few hours. The sins of the world had not been paid in full yet.

Ken, the sins of the world. That’s why he was doing this. Though the Pharisees beat him and the Romans whipped him and nailed him to this tree, they weren’t the ones holding him to the cross. Though the ropes and nails seemed as though they were keeping him there—trapped—they really weren’t. As Jesus told the Pharisees long ago, “No one takes my life away from me. I lay it down on my own accord.” At that instant, Jesus could un-nail himself from the cross. Or he could die. He could just give up his life. 

But he didn’t.

The sins of the world were not paid for yet. He had every murder, every lie, every theft, every rape, and every sinful thought directly on his shoulders. He’d had those sins whipped into his back, on his face, on his legs, on his arms. He’d had those sinned pressed deeply into his skull. He’d had those sins thrown over his shoulders, disguised in a cloak of purple. He’d had those sins dug into his back with each step he took, and those sins also shoved his face into the ground as he fell. And just recently, he’d had those sins nailed in his hands and feet. Now, the sins sat on his shoulders. Every single sin of the entire world. The past world and the future world. Every single sin of every single person…

The weight was almost unbearable. Physically, it almost pulled his entire body down, ripping his hands out of the nails. Emotionally, he was drained. And exhausted. He tried not to think about those many, many sins, but he also tried to think about them. He thought of every sin individually, who had committed it, when, and the thoughts that were going through their mind. That man that had hit him in the face in the temple? Jesus knew his thoughts at that moment, and he knew of his thoughts now. The soldier who pressed the crown of thorns into his head? Jesus knew what had been running through his mind at that moment. And Caiphas? Ken, Jesus even knew about him. He had seen the demons dancing around Caiphas as he called out how ridiculous it was for Jesus to say he would destroy the temple, then rebuild it in three days. Satan had been one of those demons. Satan had glared and smiled at Jesus, all the while he patted Caiphas on the shoulder—him not knowing this. The other demons—all fallen angels—laughed and snarled, coaxing Caiphas to say more and cheering when he did so.

How Jesus loved Caiphas.

He loved the sinner, not the sins. It was the sins he was paying for, yet the sinners he was doing this for.

Like Caiphas, and John. And Mary of Magdala. And the Roman soldier who’d dislocated his shoulder. And Dismas and Gestas. And even hundreds of years in the future, he was doing this for that little Indian girl who will love to play in the woods. And that pioneer boy who will one day in the future marry the girl he adored. And farther in the future, he was doing this for that ginger-haired, green-eyed girl who will grow up to be a person of medicine.

Jesus loved all of his children so much it nearly hurt him more than his physical wounds did. 

 

This day was turning out to be an amusing one. First he had the privilege of nailing that idiot to the cross, and now he was winning his clothes! Saraph smiled as he cupped his hand around the four dice and tossed them on the table. They traveled across the platform towards his other opponents, landing the exact way Saraph wished them to. He cheered loudly as he calculated his new score. A few more dice rolls and he would win the Worm Kings’ garment.

Glancing up towards that criminal, he grinned. Sure was a lot of pain that man was going through. Saraph wasn’t even sure what he had done to deserve that, but whatever it was, it had to be something bad. Honestly, Saraph couldn’t even believe he was still alive. The murderers on his left and right appeared near death, and they hadn’t even been scourged. They simply hung by their hands and feet on that piece of tree, pale as the moon.

The King, on the other hand, wasn’t really pale. He was entirely red. Not a spot of white on him. His skin was butchered and torn to pieces. His fingers were curled in pain. Yet he was still alive?

Not for long, Saraph figured. If he didn’t die soon, his legs would be broken, that way he couldn’t breathe anymore. Saraph knew that holy day—Passover—was tomorrow, and Pilate would not allow criminals to hang on crosses during that time. Which was a shame, really, since Saraph would have enjoyed seeing how long the King of Jews would have lasted before his legs had to be broken. All night? Up until tomorrow? Maybe he could have gambled his winnings on that.

“Saraph!” his soldier opponent shouted.

He turned. “What?”

“It’s your turn, idiot!”

“Oh, shut up! I’m going.” 

As Saraph prepared to roll the dice, a strong breeze ruffled his clothes, sending

the ends of his garments flying on the table. Dust kicked up and landed in his eyes, and he quickly rubbed it away in time to see a hazy red fog roll in from behind the crucifixes. The fog crept around the bottoms of the crosses, covering the wood. Then it snaked around the people watching and weeping. More wind came, knocking the artificial table over and spilling the dice onto the rocky ground. Saraph cursed as he hurried to gather up his four dice. When he was looking for the last one, everything grew dark. He couldn’t see the ground, the crosses, his men, or the bystanders. His saw nothing.

“Hey!” he shouted out, but his cry was lost in the midst of all the chaos. He couldn’t see anything, but he could hear women screaming and the other soldiers yelling. Saraph glanced up towards the sky and saw a circle silhouette of light, where the sun should have been. But instead of the sun, it was total blackness. 

Saraph fell to his knees, frightened, and turned to where he thought Jesus’ cross was. Oddly enough, as soon as he started to look, he could see the man hanging on the cross. He saw the bloody limbs and the nailed hands and feet. He saw the face of that man, even amidst the blackness and blood.

Then he saw one woman and one man slowly make their way to the cross, as if they could see fine. The woman, weeping, cried out, “My Son! I beg you to take my life. Let me die with you.”

Intrigued, Saraph shut out all of the other distractions surrounding him and focused on the event before him, which, oddly enough, was the only thing he could see.

The King allowed his head to fall to his chest and looked at the woman—apparently his mother—and said, “Woman, behold your Son.” Averting his eyes ever so slightly to the man by the woman, he said, “Behold your mother.”

She became overcome with grief, while the man nodded and hugged her, then, ever so slowly, led her away. Saraph lost sight of them and was only focused on the man on the cross. The man who didn’t curse or cry out as the other criminal did. The man who didn’t even say he deserved this. He did deserve this, didn’t he?

Saraph didn’t know how long there was darkness. Maybe for only a few seconds, but maybe for much longer than that. But when lightness finally came back, Saraph felt unexplainably different. The red fog was gone, and all that remained was a chilly breeze and gray clouds in the sky.

Slightly shaken, Saraph didn’t even notice the soldiers trying to grab his attention until one of them shoved him in the back, sending him to his knees. When he glanced up, he realized he was directly below the King. He could see each tear of blood trail down the foot of the cross onto the rocks below. Gingerly, Saraph cast his eyes farther up the cross and stared into the eyes of the supposed criminal. Something hit him at that moment. Though the man’s eyes were nearly swollen shut, it was as if he was looking directly into Saraph’s soul. And seeing what?

Confused, Saraph couldn’t take his eyes of the man. He seemed…innocent? Impossible…it was impossible, right?

“Saraph!” he heard from behind him. “Get up!”

Dazed and distracted, Saraph came to a stand and slowly walked away from the crucifix. 

“Saraph!”

“What?” he finally managed to ask, his eyes turning towards the soldiers who’d repositioned the gaming table.

“Are you going to go or not? Last round.”

Saraph couldn’t believe they were acting this way. Hadn’t they just seen what had happened? Or had that only been him?

“Play yourself. I’m done.” Saraph waved his hand to show he was finished, then started to walk down Golgotha. He had to get away and…think. Had it seriously only been him who’d seen the red fog? Had only he been enveloped in darkness? Had only he see the Mother-Son confrontation?

Saraph rushed away, too confused to glance back at that King of the Jews.

Time was running out for Jesus, and he knew that. He knew he wouldn’t last much longer on the cross, and it hurt him immensely to think that he wouldn’t be able to be with his Mother anymore. But John would take care of her.

Palms almost numb from the excruciating pain, feet in an unbearable state of injury, Jesus struggled one more time to breathe. He stood himself up, unbending his legs slightly, and sucked in air. How it hurt him! How staying alive hurt him more than anything. Yes, the scourging was horrible. Yes, the horns in his head pierced his skull. Yes, the wounds in his hands and feet were far worse than anyone in the entire world would ever go through. But staying alive? That hurt him the most. Every second longer he hung on that cross, he was crushing the sins one more person had or would eventually commit. Every second longer, Satan was being forced deeper into Hell and away from his Children. Every second longer, the Gates of Heaven were slowly being opened, inch by inch.

But Jesus could hardly stay alive for a second longer. 

Moaning, Jesus lift his head towards Heaven and cried out, “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?”

In response, the wind picked up, sending intense cold throughout Jesus’ entire body. A dark cloud covered the sun, creating a gray atmosphere. Everything was gray and gloomy.

And Jesus was entirely alone.

His Father had turned his back on him, and Jesus knew why. Jesus was carrying the weight of all the sins of the entire world on his shoulders. He was nailed to this cross like a criminal—like a person of sin. His Father didn’t see his Son, he saw sins. And that nearly made Jesus weep. He would have, too, it he hadn’t been too exhausted and dehydrated. Not even a tear could fall down his face and mix with his blood. Instead, the sins of theft, murder, lying, jealous, envy, and greed dug into his skin, covering up his righteousness and making him feel ashamed—as if he had really committed those sins.

Below him, Jesus heard the Pharisees say, “He is calling Elijah.”

“Let us see if Elijah comes and saves him.”

But Jesus wasn’t calling for Elijah, he was calling for his Heavenly Father. The same Father who had sent him to Earth to rescue his Children. The same Father he had prayed to many hours ago in the Garden, and the same Father who had sent an angel to comfort him. The same Father who now who turned his back on his Son, only seeing every sin of every person of the entire world—past and future.

Jesus was exhausted, weak, and in horrible pain, but now he was also alone, for not even his Father could be with him in his time of dire need.

Abenadar, sitting atop his horse, watched in deep remorse as the Nazarene struggled with every breath he took. It was horrible the way the Pharisees had condemned him to death when, Abenadar knew, they had only done it out of spite. They should suffer, not this man whose skin was pale from loss of blood, his body rigid with pain, and his forehead breaking out in a cold sweat.

Abenadar watched as the King of the Jews struggled to speak.

“I thirst.”

The other Roman soldiers scoffed at him and continued to play their game of dice. Angered, Abenadar climbed down from his horse and stomped over to a lance. He grabbed a hyssop plant, soaked it in wine and vinegar, and stuck it on the end of the lance. Glaring at the soldiers, Abenadar marched over to the foot of the cross and held the lance’s end up to Jesus’ mouth. The Nazarene struggled to grab the hyssop plant with his teeth, but after a bit Abenadar figured he had gotten some of the mixture.

Watching for a moment longer as the man’s breathing became quite labored, Abenadar moved on to the next criminals.

Mary knew what was going to happen. She could sense it, as if her Son was telling her directly. Storm clouds rolled in, kicking up dust and dirt and sending an icy chill through her.

Releasing John’s hand, she rushed to the feet of her Son. Tears streaming down her face, she gingerly touched his swollen, bloodied, and blistered feet. She kissed them, blood then covering her lips, chin, and cheeks. Mary gazed up at her Baby Boy through her tears. She tightened her veil around her head, fighting against the cold and the horrid feeling of what was to come.

Jesus looked down at her—blood dripping from his face—for what Mary knew to be one of the last times. In that moment, Mary could hear every word Jesus had once said to her. She could hear him whispering, “I love you, Mommy” from when he was only two years old. She could hear him laughing with her husband Joseph. She could hear him speaking of wonderful times, God’s faithfulness, and even his favorite dish of hers. She could see every memory. She could see him being born and when he was first laid in her arms in that little stable of Bethlehem. She could see the time when he took his first steps. She could see the time when he was preaching in the Temple. She could see the time when he worked alongside Joseph in the carpentry business. She could see his smile. She could see his eyes dancing with mischievous and joy. In those moments, standing before the cross, Mary couldn’t see a beaten and bloodied Son. She saw the perfect Son of God, the one that had been given to her to care for, and the One she had and always would cherish.

Mary was given the gift of all the memories flooding into her mind in a split second, and she was entirely grateful.

But that moment of happiness for her was gone nearly as soon as it had arrived, for now she did see her injured Son. She did see her Little Boy beaten and bloodied and on the verge of dying. She saw that, and she started to weep, for she knew there was nothing she could do to lessen his pain.

“Mother, don’t cry. This is exactly how it’s supposed to be.”

Glancing up through her fingers, Mary saw Jesus looking down at her for a single moment, a silent thought between them. 

Then, in a movement ever so swift, Jesus lifted his head up, cried out, and said, “It…is finished.”

As he leaned his head back against the wood, Mary could barely hear his final words:

“Abba, into your…hands, I commend…my spirit.”

A sigh was given, and then Jesus’ head fell against his chest.

The Son of God was dead.


	27. Preparation for the Tomb

Preparation for the Tomb  
Jesus was now lying in his Mother’s arms. The nails were out of his hands and feet, and the crown of thorns was near Mary’s side, blood still dripping off of it.  
Mary cradled her dear Son in her arms. She touched his face gingerly, stroking his eyebrows, smoothing his hair, wiping the blood-tears from below his eyes. She kissed each one of his cheeks with utmost love and care. She could feel the cold blood on her face by that small touch.  
The wind blew Mary’s veil by her side. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the black cloth wave up and down. She could also see numerous Roman soldiers kneeling on the ground, either weeping or praying. To her left was her friend Mary of Magdala. She held Jesus’ feet in her arms, kissing them and crying over them. John, her new son, stood solemnly to himself, occasionally wiping his cheeks with His hand.  
But Mary didn’t cry. She didn’t cry, nor pray, nor become angry. She simply held her Son. She held her Baby Boy in her arms for what she knew to be the last time. Mary desperately wished to tell him in person how much she loved him. She wanted to hear him speak of God’s truth and goodness and love. She wanted to watch him do his carpentry—building tables and chairs and small toys for the children of Jerusalem. She wanted to converse with him over a dinner of bread and goat’s cheese.   
But most of all, Mary wanted to see him smile. She loved his smile. Though he teased her sometimes and splashed her playfully with water when he was washing his hands, he always smiled. He always made Mary smile. He always made everyone smile. And Mary knew she would miss that the most.  
She could see the extent of his wounds clearly now. She saw the large holes imprinted in his skull. She saw each whip mark. Some left red stripes upon his body, while others dug deep into his flesh. She saw the large gash on his shoulder—the one he endured while carrying the cross he didn’t deserve. She saw the tear by his rib cage—the one made by the soldier’s lance. And as she grasped his hand, she saw the hole in it—right through his palm. She could see all the way through it—even spotting the rocky ground passed that.  
Mary gently laid both of her Son’s hands atop his chest. She fingered his hair, slightly smiling, and turned towards the jars of spices and oils beside her—the ones Joseph of Arimathea had brought her. Grabbing one bottle at a time, she poured some of the ointment over a cloth and gently wiped Jesus’ body. After only a moment the entire cloth was red from the blood, and she had to retrieve a new one.   
Mary carefully cleaned each and every wound of Jesus, trying her best to wipe away the pain thrust upon her innocent Son. She cleaned the blood away from his eyes, his mouth, and his beard. She gently poured spices and oils into the holes in his hands and the wounds on his head. She fingered his hair, untangling it and separating it into three parts.  
Once Mary knew Jesus was prepared to be laid in his tomb, she hugged him. Not a single tear slid down her face. She simply wrapped her arms around his body and hugged him close to her breast. She wanted to feel the warmth of his skin, and to feel him hugging her back, but she only felt coldness.  
Kissing his holy hands for the final time, Mary kept her eyes on her Baby Boy as Nicodemus and Joseph lifted him out of her arms and slowly carried him off. Mary hardly noticed Mary of Magdala running after them, weeping.


	28. Jesus is Laid in the Tomb

Hey guys! So here is the LAST CHAPTER. I know, *cries*. Thank you sooooo much for reading into this far of my story. I hope you guys liked it as much as I did :) For this one, towards the middle part, I have John run out of the Tomb first, which, if you remember, when Jesus rises again, John is the FIRST one to run INTO the tomb. Just a little side-note. How do you guys like the final paragraph? When it's nobody's POV?

 

THANKS FOR READING!!!! LOVE YOU GUYS!!!

Jesus is Laid in the Tomb

 

John followed closely behind Joseph and Nicodemus. He watched as his Lord was carefully brought into the prepared tomb, then laid on the giant rock table. John noticed Nicodemus staring into the face of Jesus, then he gently placed the cloth over his face.

 

There he was. The King of kings and Lord of lords, lying on a table in a tomb—dead. John’s best friend… What would he do now? How would he care for his new Mother? How would he provide for her? Where were the rest of the Apostles? Peter? His brother, James?

 

Jesus, help me.

 

But as John stared down at that body, he had a great deal of doubt as to whether Jesus could help him. He had endured every single blow and every single pain with silence, and even allowed himself to hang on a cross like a criminal. How would he help John? Why would he help John?

 

Jesus was dead. And he wasn’t coming back. John was utterly alone to care for himself and the Blessed Mother.

 

Turning away, John hurried out of the grotto. 

 

 

Storm clouds rolled in and sprinkles of rain started to fall. Mary of Magdala grasped flowers and palm branches in her hand as she stood just outside of the tomb. John was the first one out. Mary watched, confused, as he hurried away from that area, not glancing at her or the tomb. Taking it as a cue to go in, Mary of Magdala ran inside and knelt before the body of her Lord. She placed the flowers and palm branches near him, and whispered words of prayer as the tears once again began falling from her eyes.

 

She thought of when she was possessed by demons, when Jesus had cured her, and those years she had followed him—listening, praying, and worshipping him. She thought of the love he shared for her and for the world. She thought of the happy times…when Jesus would laugh and smile and play with the children. He was so happy then…

 

Almost unavoidably, flashes of Jesus’ blood came rushing through Mary’s mind. She saw the whips with glass shards ripping into his flesh, tearing him apart blow by blow. She saw the cross digging deep into his shoulder. She saw the blood drip from his temple into his swollen eyes. She saw the fountain of redness gush forth from his hands as each nail trapped him against his deathbed. She saw him hanging there on the cross—a condemned criminal. Then she saw him die. Right before her eyes, she saw her perfect Lord—the one who had cured her and given her a life worth living—die by crucifixion.

 

Overcome with grief, Mary cried out and reached for her Lord, which was entirely wrapped in cloth. Nicodemus came running to her, pulling her away, but she fought, begging her Lord to become alive again. She scratched and screamed at the man who held her back and dragged her out of the tomb, but he was much stronger than her. Once Mary was outside and by the Blessed Mother, she collapsed on the ground in a fit of tears. She grabbed her hair, covered her ears, and sat rocking, overcome with sadness like never before.

 

Mary the Mother, face pale, knelt beside her, looked in her eyes, and hugged her. Strengthened yet still sad, Mary of Magdala stood and looked towards the tomb as the stone was slowly rolled over the entrance. She could see the body lie there on the table. She could see the burial cloth covering Jesus’ head. 

 

Then, she could see him no more.

 

Though there were many people there along with Mary, including Mary of Heli, Mary of Cleophas, Johanna Chusa, Mary the mother of Mark, Salome, Anne, Dina, Mara, Martha, and even Lazarus, a great silence stretched over the land like nothing Mary ever knew. No one said anything. No one wept, nor yelled in anger, nor prayed aloud. 

 

Just silence.

 

Rain began falling down, and Mary could feel the droplets sprinkling on her hair. She glanced up and saw each raindrop fall from the sky, like tears from the angels. A hazy mist rolled in from a distance and slightly covered the tomb where her Lord lay dead—unmoving, unbreathing.

 

After only a moment of realization, almost all the women started to weep. Some walked away, wiping their faces in deep sadness. John left with Mary the Mother, but Mary of Magdala remained standing for only a moment longer in the cold and rain. She stared at that tomb which held her Lord. She stared and she cried, the tears mixing with the rain.

 

Then, Mary slowly turned away from her Savior.

 

 

As sadness stretched across the land of Jerusalem, somewhere farther off, there was no sadness. Though many women and men alike were weeping at the death of Jesus, elsewhere, Jesus was not dead. Elsewhere, Jesus—healed fully except for the holes in his hands and feet and the tear in his side—stood before the hundreds of thousands of souls recently released from Limbo. His clothes were dazzling white, and he was smiling. All of his pain was gone. Every injury and drop of blood was healed, for Jesus’ mission had been completed; and now, he stood before the Golden Gates of Heaven, him and his Father on one side, the many souls on the other. Slowly, inch by inch, Jesus opened Heaven’s doors, the Love and Light of God streaming forth in indescribable radiance. The souls rejoiced, as did Jesus, for now millions were finally welcomed into paradise.


End file.
